Sniper
by Cropper
Summary: A Sniper has returned from prison seeking vengeance on those responsible for his incarceration. AU. Follows Dreamers on the Rise
1. Prologue

**Title: **Sniper

**Author:** Cropper

**Pairing:** GSR

**Rating: **Mature for Profanity, Graphic Imagery, Adult Situations

**Disclaimer: **I do not own them but I wish I did. I mean no harm or infringement and will return everyone to their rightful owners when I finish, I promise.

**Summary: **A Sniper has returned from prison seeking vengeance on those responsible for his incarceration.

**A/N: **I had lots of help with this story so this might take a couple of minutes. Thank you, **idreamedmusic**, for the beautiful banner. The hefeweizen is still on me. **Smacky30, Cincoflex, Domo Arigato** and anyone else who might have done a beta read on this for me? You ladies are all awesome and I am deeply appreciative of your efforts. **LosingInTranslation **provided invaluable assistance with the medical terminology and is responsible for the wound track diagrams. And finally, a huge thanks to **Cheryl, Lisa, Cindy, Michelle, Muriel** and **Kaye**. They are my constants._**  
**_

**PROLOGUE**

_**Out there on the street  
You can hear them mumble  
Stumble on their feet  
They are all the desperate men  
Out there on the road**_  
**_You see them on the highway_**  
_**Everywhere you go  
They are all the desperate men**_

Grissom glanced at his watch and sighed. It was eight o'clock. She was not going to show up. He slowly covered the remains of a celebratory feast that would never be eaten and slid the dishes into the refrigerator. He snuffed out the candles, and sniffled once, allowing himself a brief moment of pity, a minute condolence for a silly wish never meant to be. He considered returning the china and crystal to the hutch but decided to leave them on the table. They were beautiful and quietly elegant, just like her, silent reminders of what might have been once upon a time. He stared wistfully at the small black box on her plate before slipping it into his pocket. He caressed the crushed velvet longingly before removing his hand to swipe at a single tear sliding down his cheek. He grabbed his jacket and pulled out his phone as he headed for the door. He would be available to work this evening after all.

_**Right there in your bed  
Tossing and turning  
On the pillow by your head  
All the desperate men  
Right there in your arms  
You can hear him crying  
Sounding the alarm**_  
**_All the desperate men_**

The Sniper polished the stock with a soft, oiled cloth, carefully removing the smudged friction ridges. Granted, fingerprints could not be seen on the black matte finish of the military issue rifle, but he knew they were there and he detested all mess and chaos not caused by deadened spits launching from the barrel of his weapon. He raised the gun to his cheek, nestling it in the curve of his shoulder like an old lover. He looked through the scope and grinned with delight when the stocky figure passed before the cross hairs. Bullseye. His smile widened as his finger carefully exerted pressure, easing the bullet from the magazine. A brief expulsion of air was all that was heard.

_**All the desperate men  
Singing, "Will I ever  
Will I ever love again?"  
All the desperate men**_

** "All the Desperate Men" Words and Music by John Stewart **

**TO BE CONTINUED... **


	2. Chapter One

**Title:** Sniper

**Author:** Cropper

**Pairing:** GSR

**Rating:** Mature for Profanity, Graphic Imagery, Adult Situations

**Disclaimer: **I do not own them but I wish I did. I mean no harm or infringement and will return everyone to their rightful owners when I finish, I promise.

**Summary: **A Sniper has returned from prison seeking vengeance on those responsible for his incarceration.

**A/N: **I had lots of help with this story so this might take a couple of minutes. Thank you, **idreamedmusic**, for the beautiful banner. The hefeweizen is still on me. **Smacky30, Cincoflex, Domo Arigato** and anyone else who might have done a beta read on this for me? You ladies are all awesome and I am deeply appreciative of your efforts. **LosingInTranslation** provided invaluable assistance with the medical terminology and is responsible for the wound track diagrams. And finally, a huge thanks to **Cheryl, Lisa, Cindy, Michelle, Muriel** and **Kaye**. They are my constants.

**Warnings: **This is an AU story and the third in a series following **"Race Aming the Ruins"** and **"Dreamers on the Rise"**. Despite circumstantial evidence to the contrary, this is **NOT** a character death story.

**CHAPTER ONE**

_**Oh, pretty Mama, won't you rock me in the morning  
Because I'm under heavy fire from the guns along the way  
And oh, pretty mama won't you take it as a warning  
Because I'm under heavy fire from the guns along the way**_

Flashing lights dominated the Strip in Las Vegas. Glowing neon signs fought for dominance with bawling police cruisers, ambulances and fire fighting equipment; the night was flooded with a percussive cacophony of sight and sound and urgency. The valet parking area of the Stratosphere was crawling with law enforcement officers, Emergency Medical Technicians, fire fighters, Crime Scene Investigators and representatives from the Coroner's Office. A spray of automatic gunfire erupting from the driver's window of a low-rider had peppered six cars, two valets, and three families waiting for their vehicles. No one had an accurate head count with regard to casualties and the entire scene throbbed with confusion. All available personnel had been ordered to the distinctive needle-like hotel and casino in an attempt to sort out the carnage and bring order to the chaos.

Under Sheriff Jeff McKeen, smartly attired in a silk suit and tie, quickly surveyed the area and made a beeline for Grissom. A Sniper, targeting the law enforcement, legal and medical communities, was on the prowl and the rapidly assembling press corps demanded answers.

"Grissom!"

Grissom glanced up from the evidence he was painstakingly photographing and graced the Under Sheriff with an annoyed grimace.

"Was this the Sniper?"

"Well hello to you, too, Jeff. And what brings you out on such a lovely evening?" Grissom's greeting dripped with politely restrained sarcasm.

"I was spending an evening out with my wife and was in the neighborhood,' McKeen replied.

Grissom stood slowly and carefully stretched his troublesome left knee. "I don't know yet. This isn't his M.O. The evidence collection and witness statements are pointing towards a drive-by shooting. I'll know more after everything has been processed."

"Can you at least give me your first impression? The reporters are breathing down my neck on this."

Grissom sighed and spouted the first thing that came to mind - well, maybe not the first thing - but the first thought he was willing to share. "Off the record? Some young punk trying to make his gang bones." McKeen nodded and started to walk away. He paused when Grissom resumed speaking.

"Maybe one of these victims was an intentional target and the rest are just collateral damage."

The Under Sheriff looked at Grissom, making certain that he was finished before turning to leave again.

"A spree killer could have been looking to scratch an itch."

McKeen rolled his eyes, well aware that Grissom was toying with him. "Are you finished?"

Grissom looked at the other man thoughtfully. "A disgruntled customer might have a beef with the hotel, somebody who lost a lot of money in the casino might have been looking to avenge his losses…"

"Okay, Grissom. You made your point," he exclaimed in exasperation. "Do you have anything at all that I can give the press?"

Grissom allowed a ghost of a smirk to grace his lips. "Just that we're processing the scene and won't have any answers until we've examined all of the evidence."

Shooting Grissom a black scowl, the Under Sheriff finally strolled back to where the press corps had gathered in ever increasing numbers behind the yellow crime scene tape. Grissom watched the circus with disdain, wondering if he should have been more forthright with McKeen. He had not lied, he just failed to mention that his personal intuition led him to believe that the Sniper's accomplice created this mess…his spotter…to create just this situation and draw out his next victim. There was really no need to burden the Under Sheriff with that information, and, given the McKeen's penchant for saying too much, it was very likely that the he would slip up and reveal to the Sniper that his identity had been uncovered. The LVPD still had the element of surprise on their side and planned to use it to their full advantage.

Grissom was about to return to his duties when the Under Sheriff called him and Brass to his side. Questions from the press were coming hot and heavy. McKeen was being accused of withholding information from the public and sought to reassure the good citizens of Las Vegas that this incident had nothing to do with the Sniper. McKeen directed all further inquiries towards Grissom and Brass as the investigators of record and leaders of the Sniper task force. Since the case was open and part of an on-going investigation, any and all answers they were able to provide were vague, bordering on obtuse.

**_Oh pretty mama won't you take me to the wire_**  
_**Because I'm under heavy fire from the guns along the way  
And oh pretty mama can't you see it's getting higher**_  
**_Because I'm under heavy fire from the guns along the way_**

Sara was out with friends, hanging out at a restaurant and decompressing a bit after a long day in the physics lab at UNLV. She was picking at her veggie burger, listening to her classmates and professor from her Environmental Health Physics class voice their mounting concerns with regard to radioactive waste further contaminating the environment and possible solutions. She was not particularly interested in the discussion as her companions were merely rehashing positions professed time and time again. Her attention wandered towards the television monitors mounted throughout the restaurant and she was startled to see Grissom's image fill the screen.

As she watched the interview, she drank in his appearance, noting with a pang of longing that it had been awhile since she had taken the time to just sit and observe him, to watch him work. Sara did not know if it was the harsh glow of the reporter's lights or the revolving glow from the police cruisers but Grissom seemed tired and appeared to have lost some weight. To her eyes, he always looked good, a little rough around the edges, perhaps, from long nights and a stressful case, but still achingly handsome. She caressed his image with her gaze, her focus settling on his eyes. They were flat, a listless gunmetal shade of dull grayish blue instead of their usual gleaming cobalt. Gone was the twinkle, that spark of life that made them glitter and shine even in the dark of night. They were cold, now, brittle, as if an intrinsic part of him had died.

And then she remembered; understood so clearly, so completely. A searing flush of shame crept up her cheeks as a wave of guilt gnawed through the pit of her stomach. How could she have forgotten something so important? They were…

Grissom's left hand suddenly flashed upwards to swipe at the side of his neck. Sara watched with morbid fascination as a small splash of blood swiftly blossomed from his left shoulder to stain the front of his shirt. Time seemed to slow as his knees buckled and he crumpled towards the ground. Brass caught him, gently eased him the rest of the way down and rolled him on his back to lie face up on the uneven asphalt. He ripped the front of Grissom's shirt open with unrestrained violence, his anxious hands sliding furiously through the growing pool of blood as he searched for the cause of Grissom's injury while shouting desperately for the paramedics. Blood…there was so much blood.

**_They make a wicked sound_**  
_**Rock me pretty mama till the wind turns round**_  
**_I'm spread-eagled on the ground  
_****_Rock me pretty mama till it all dies down_**

The news camera zoomed in on Grissom's face and Sara gasped aloud. His eyes were wide open and focused on the neon-tainted sky. She could see pain blotting his gaze but lurking just around the edges, she detected something that frightened her more than the crimson river flowing from his battered torso. In a moment of stunning clarity, as swift and brilliant as popping flash bulbs, Sara absorbed his soul. Grissom knew that he was going to die and his calm acceptance of that fate tore through her heart. She shuddered, glued to her chair, helpless to move as she watched Grissom's life relentlessly pump out and puddle thickly upon the pebbled pavement despite Brass' frantic attempts to stem the flow.

Grissom's lips started to move, the sensitive microphones picking up his strangled voice. It was a faint rasp, growing weaker with each labored breath, a single word chanted over and over again.

"What's he saying? 'Sara'?" a reporter asked, shoving a microphone into McKeen's face. "Who's Sara?"

"Sara Sidle," answered McKeen distractedly, his complete attention locked on the battle between life and death raging a few feet away.

All of her companions turned to gape at her but Sara was unaware of the attention.

"Who is Sara Sidle? His wife? Companion? Lover?" The reporter was relentless.

McKeen's whisper could barely be heard. "All of the above and then some." The Under Sheriff tore his gaze away from Grissom, suddenly aware that the film crews were zeroed in on the unfolding drama like a pack of carrion pickers. He called for some officers and pushed the reporters back, hoping that the stations receiving the live feeds would exercise proper judgment and switch back to the studio or to a newscaster standing beyond the police barricade. The least he could do was allow Grissom to retain his dignity and privacy. No one deserved to die on live television.

**_Oh, pretty Mama, won't you rock me in the morning_**  
_**Because I'm under heavy fire from the guns along the way  
And oh, pretty mama won't you take it as a warning**_  
**_Because I'm under heavy fire from the guns along the way_**

The television station immediately killed the live feed and the abrupt appearance of the cool blonde reporter at the news anchor desk freed Sara from her inertia. She leapt from her chair, sending it crashing to the floor and grabbed for her purse and cell phone. As she fumbled for her keys, her companions assaulted her with a barrage of questions that she neither acknowledged nor answered. Her only concern was getting to Grissom. He needed her, was calling for her, and she was not about to let him down. She hurried away from the table and headed towards the parking lot, pulling against from the hand that had wrapped itself around her upper arm. The grip around her bicep was bruising and relentless and Sara whirled, snarling at whoever this was that had the audacity to try to keep her from Grissom.

"Let me go," she growled into the face of Justin Marks, her professor. "I have to go. He needs me." She tugged again, trying to jerk her arm away from Justin.

"Sara, wait. You're in no condition to drive. Will you at least let me take you to the hospital?" Justin asked, concerned. Sara was visibly shaking and tears were streaming down her ghostly pale cheeks.

She nodded once, and Justin relaxed his grip. Sara immediately broke free and bolted for the parking lot, leaving Justin to try to catch up.

**_Oh pretty mama won't you take me to the wire  
Because I'm under heavy fire from the guns along the way_**  
_**And oh pretty mama can't you see it's getting higher**_  
**_Because I'm under heavy fire from the guns along the way_**

Brass was trying to quiet Grissom, to calm him in an effort to conserve his waning strength. "Hang on, pal. I'll find Sara for you. Just rest easy. I'll find her. I'll find her." He slipped one blood-soaked hand into one of Grissom's and squeezed tightly, hoping to provide some comfort and reassurance. He continued to apply pressure to Grissom's wound with his free hand and harshly shouted for the paramedics again.

Grissom's eyes fluttered shut, his long thick lashes gently closing to rest upon his bloodless cheeks as the tight lines of pain etched around his eyes and his mouth smoothed over. The endless mantra spilling from his graying lips trailed off on an open syllable.

The paramedics finally made their way across the parking lot and shoved Brass out of the way, forcing him to relinquish his hold on Grissom's lifeless hand. Brass stood helplessly, staring at his blood stained hands, watching, waiting, the stark anguish on his face saying more than a thousand words ever could.

The lead paramedic barked at Brass as he knelt to swiftly begin his examination of Grissom. "What happened?"

"Don't know," Brass replied. "Shot I think. Exit wou-" The rest of his response was lost as the paramedic started his assessment of Grissom's wounds.

"I've got a GSW, left shoulder, anterior side, under the trap… Exit wound, right side, lower thoracic, through the intercostal space of the seventh and eighth."

"Radial pulse; thready and weak…" The medic moved his hand down to his ankle and felt for the pulse there. He shook his head and said, "Absent pedal pulse…" He worked to get the blood pressure cuff around Grissom's arm as he watched Grissom's chest subtlety rise and fall. "Respirations down to five, barely."

"We gotta scoop and run, I'm plugging the holes but this guy's gonna bleed out before we hit the bus at this rate."

The two men lifted Grissom onto the gurney and then the paramedic grabbed the radio from his shoulder and called, "Desert Palms Control, we have a male in his fifties, GSW to the shoulder, exit wound in the lower right thoracic region, can't get a BP in the field, pulse is weak and thready, circulation to the extremities compromised. All vitals degrading… Please advise."

"Unit 16, scoop, run and report from the bus. Thoracic is on standby in the bay. Call with your ETA."

"Ten Four, Contr-" He was interrupted by his partner still laboring over Grissom.

"Cut the chatter, I need the bag, he's crashing. We have cardiac involvement."

"Update, Control, patient crashing… We're bagging him, one-oh-seven thinks cardiac injury."

The lead medic shook his head again and hollered out, "Scratch that, pulse unchanged, possible pneumo… We gotta keep bagging to get him in the bus." The medic called to the officers standing around. "I'm gonna hop the gurney, I need you guys to get it in the bus."

He jumped up onto the gurney and continued to breathe for Grissom; the police officers worked with the other medic to get the stretcher loaded and with a heavy thud of slamming doors and screech of rubber, the ambulance went screaming into the night.

**_They make a wicked sound_**  
_**Rock me pretty mama till the wind turns round  
I'm spread-eagled on the ground  
Rock me pretty mama till it all dies down**_

_**"Under Heavy Fire" Words and Music by John Stewart **_

**TO BE CONTINUED... **


	3. Chapter Two

**Title: **Sniper

**Author: **Cropper

**Pairing: **GSR

**Rating: **Mature for Profanity, Graphic Imagery, Adult Situations

**Disclaimer: **I do not own them but I wish I did. I mean no harm or infringement and will return everyone to their rightful owners when I finish, I promise.

**Summary: **A Sniper has returned from prison seeking vengeance on those responsible for his incarceration.

**A/N: **Thank you,** idreamedmusic**, for the beautiful banner. **Smacky30, Cincoflex, Domo Arigato **and anyone else who might have done a beta read on this for me? You ladies are all awesome and I am deeply appreciative of your efforts. **LosingInTranslation **provided invaluable assistance with the medical terminology and is responsible for the wound track diagrams. **atrueparrothead **is responsible for the fantastic video trailer on the index page and has completed another that will be posted with Chapter Six. And finally, a huge thanks to **Cheryl, Lisa, Cindy, Michelle, Muriel **and **Kaye. **They are my constants.

**CHAPTER TWO**

_**Oh, you got to hold the line and have faith in the river  
Look for a sign any way you can go  
For now is the time to stand and deliver  
With the tears of the sun falling over the snow**_

The Emergency Room was humming with activity when Sara burst through the sliding glass doors. "Where's Grissom?" she demanded loudly.

The nurse at the reception desk looked up from her computer terminal, blinking behind her thick lenses at the shrill-voiced harpy who had just appeared before her. "Excuse me?" she asked, her tone indicating that she did not care for Sara's attitude one bit.

"Gil Grissom," Sara shouted impatiently, not at all intimidated by the nurse. "He was wounded at a crime scene not fifteen minutes ago. Where the hell is he?"

Her strident voice was nearly drowned out by a screaming siren as an ambulance backed up to the Emergency Room and the doors of the vehicle flew open before it had fully stopped. The hospital had a trauma team on stand-by and several members rushed out to grab the stretcher carrying Grissom and the paramedic who was still straddling him.

Sara quickly spun around and watched with dazed fascination as the blood soaked gurney slammed through the doors and was immediately swarmed by the other members of the waiting trauma team. She swallowed heavily and grabbed the counter at the Nurse's Station for support.

"He's in full arrest!" barked the paramedic squeezing the bag to send a precious puff of air into Grissom's lungs. "No heart beat, no detectable pulse, no spontaneous breathing. We've been mechanically ventilating and performing chest compressions for three and a half minutes."

"Crash cart, STAT! Stand by to intubate if necessary."

"BREATHE!"

The medic running beside the gurney forced a burst of oxygen into Grissom's lungs from the balloon ventilator on his partner's command. The lead EMT, still straddling the injured criminalist atop the blood soaked gurney, was rhythmically performing chest compressions, grunting with exertion and counting out loud each time he pressed down to forcibly pump blood through Grissom's heart.

"And one, and two, and three, and four, and five, and BREATHE."

The life sustaining measures continued as the gurney was rolled into the trauma room. Sara took off down the hall to follow Grissom into the trauma bay.

"You can't go in there!"

Sara turned and leveled a withering glare at the nurse, daring the woman in white to stop her. "Watch me," she snarled.

_**And I have had a dream I would find the redeemer  
And I have had a dream of the sword in the stone**_  
**_And I swore to my heart that I would go on believing_**  
_**'Till the tears of the sun were falling over the snow**_

Sara slipped in the door of the ER bay and watched while the medical staff worked frantically to save Grissom's life. The medics were still performing CPR while a technician charged up the biphasic defibrillator a nurse quickly applied bio-gel to the surface of the paddles the lead physician was holding.

"Charging to 200."

The defibrillator beeped its readiness and the lead physician placed the sternum paddle to the right of the upper sternum just below the clavicle and the apex paddle to the left of Grissom's left nipple. He yelled "CLEAR" all personnel jumped back as the he administered the first jolt of electricity. Grissom's torso arched upwards and Sara jumped.

The lead physician listened through his stethoscope. "Nothing. Let's go again. Charging to 300 this time."

A nurse and technician relieved the medics of their CPR duties and the EMTs went to stand along the wall. They did not want to leave the scene, but neither did they want to be in the way and impede the efforts of the ER staff. The paramedic who had previously been straddling Grissom atop the gurney noticed Sara and approached her. "You Sara?" He had heard that the patient had been calling for someone and she seemed to be the most likely candidate. Sara could only nod; her eyes riveted on the macabre scene unfolding before her.

"He has a lot of fight in him," the EMT told her, cautiously offering what little encouragement and comfort he could without inflating her hopes unnecessarily.

As the defibrillator recharged an intern applied leads to Grissom's chest. He had properly situated the white lead below the right clavicle and was preparing to adhere the black and red wires when the lead physician saw that his placement was incorrect.

"It's 'Smoke Over Fire', 'Smoke Over Fire', you idiot," the lead physician screamed at the intern. "Get it straight. This guy does **not** have time for you to screw around and try to remember your training!"

The intern fumbled again, his hands shaking slightly as he placed the black lead, "smoke", on the left side of Grissom's chest just below the left clavicle and the red lead, "fire", on the left midaxillary line just below the heart's point of maximal impulse (PMI).

"CLEAR!"

All personnel raised their hands and jumped back from the gurney as the second shock was administered. Sara flinched as Grissom's body arched a second time and the paramedic reached out an arm to steady her. She could feel, physically feel, all the way down to her toes, every jolt of electricity being administered to her lover. Her heart momentarily stopped, stuttered and resumed beating. She was willing Grissom's heart to join her rhythm, to somehow absorb her body's frantic pulsing and come back to her.

"Still nothing. Stay at 300 for the next charge."

"CLEAR!"

Every eye in the trauma bay was glued to the monitor. A fourth charge would be futile, a possible deathblow. His heart would either restart now or they would be forced to call it quits and pronounce him dead. The lead physician glanced up at the stainless steel rimmed clock on the wall, watching the sweeping second hand and noting the exact time just in case.

"We've got a beat…"

"We have sinus rhythm..."

Sara and the trauma team breathed a collective sigh of relief, listening greedily to the echoing electronic blips of Grissom's reluctant heartbeat. She even muttered a brief prayer of supplication and thanksgiving to an elusive God she was not sure existed Grissom believed even if she did not and right now he needed all of the help she could possibly muster.

_**Oh, you got to hold the line and have faith in the river  
Look for a sign any way you can go  
For now is the time to stand and deliver  
With the tears of the sun falling over the snow **_

The respite was only momentary, however, a staccato pulse or two, before the lead physician tossed the defibrillator paddles to the intern and began to assess Grissom's breathing problems. "Still no breath sounds. Keep bagging and get ready to intubate. Get a surgeon down here now."

"Do we anesthetize before intubating?" the head nurse asked, pulling over a tray of instruments for the lead physician.

"No. He's unconscious and we don't have time."

"What about pain? It's going to be pretty uncomfortable for him," she reminded the physician.

Sara's perception began to fade, her awareness of the various procedures being performed sliding to the background of her consciousness as she focused her energy and attention on the waxen form atop the gurney. Blood still flowed from his body at an alarming rate, staining the bleached white hospital sheets and dripping, dripping to pool upon the floor, crimson rivulets running along the grout channels separating each blanching square of floor tile.

"He won't feel it."

"We don't have time to wait."

Her hearing washed out, reduced to an indistinct pulsating buzz remarkably similar to the busy signal of a telephone. She was oddly reminded of bumblebees and their graceless flight, of the low-pitched drone they made as they flitted from flower to flower in search of sweet nectar. The urgent voices of the lead physician and head nurse grew mercifully opaque and blended into the hum of the trauma room. They melded softly into the whirrs and hums of the respirator, the constant murmurs of other personnel and whispers of rustling cotton as the staff scurried back and forth to tend to Grissom. Everything synthesized together to form a discordant symphony of despair; a lonely hymn of suffering that should never be voiced.

And I swore to my heart that I would go on believing 'Till the tears of the sun were falling over the snow 

Her eyes settled for one bright instant on the gleaming tray of sterile instruments, jumping nervously to the lead physician's steady, purposeful hands as he prepared to insert a breathing tube into Grissom's damaged airway. She could not stand to watch, knowing that the life saving measures was going to cause him pain. She did not care what the physicians said; she could feel every pinch and squeeze, every poke and prod, every humane violation of Grissom's body with keen acuity. She ached for him and with him, understanding with startling clarity that she was sharing every agonizing sensation.

She dimly noticed the appearance of a surgeon. He hovered over Grissom, listening, searching. Sara winced as she watched the surgeon hurriedly move the frosty stethoscope over Grissom's bare chest. She felt goose bumps rising beneath her own shirt and shivered in response to the cold metal. She heard the surgeon mention something about a pneumothorax, a possible hemopneumothorax and a chest tube before the whirring sensation again assaulted her ears to drown out the voices.

Her attention was pulled to the bright lights illuminating the trauma bay. The harsh fluorescence was intense, magnifying everything to razor sharpness. The steam-pressed creases rising along the short sleeves of the surgeon's scrubs, still pristine and void of crimson smears, seemed so keenly-edged that they could slice effortlessly through an empty soda can. The lines around his eyes, all that Sara could really see of his features because of his mask, were deeply furrowed and ripe for planting. Even the motions of his hands were exaggerated and finely honed; distinct slices as opposed to harmless waves.

"The right lung is inflating."

"There's too much blood going into the tube. Where the hell is all the bleeding coming from?"

"I have decreased breath sounds in the left lung."

"We'll have to tube that one as well."

_**For now is the time to stand and deliver**_  
**_With the tears of the sun falling over the snow_**

Grissom's clothes were in tatters. His black button-down shirt, saturated and heavy with blood, had been completely removed and dropped to the side of the gurney with a squishy "plop". The legs of his trousers had been cut away and his socks and shoes removed. He was a mass of gray – gray, bloodless skin, gray fur scattered along his motionless limbs, gray hair rumpled and curling slightly atop his head, gray stubble decorating his cheeks, gun-metal gray lips forever stilled. Dull, lifeless gray and shimmering stainless steel, Sara saw a spectrum of gray and silver everywhere she looked; from Grissom to the stainless steel table, the stainless steel surgical instruments, the stainless steel rim around the wall-mounted clock. Everything was gray and silver, sliding seamlessly into the stark white of the room.

There were intermittent splashes of color – the dark teal scrubs of the trauma team, Grissom's sodden clothing, the deep midnight blue of the paramedics' uniforms. And the blood...there was so much blood: bags of blood, pools of blood, rivers of blood. It was everywhere, soaking and staining everything in its path. A sickly copper stench streamed through her nostrils, the bright metallic taste gagging in the back of her throat.

"Call upstairs and get an OR ready, STAT. Now, people, let's move."

Her eyes stumbled over Grissom's body, one usually so full of vitality, one she knew as intimately as her own. This pale hulk resting lifelessly atop the table was not the secure warm form of her lover, her friend, her life. She focused on his left hand. Unlike the rest of his body, which was limp, his hand was drawn up into a fist, tightly clenched as if clutching a talisman. She wondered what he could be holding. He kept very few personal items at work and only Brass had been with him since the shooting. Had Jim placed something in his hand to provide physical comfort, a small token to let Grissom know that he was not alone?

"Look, he needs to be stabilized before you drag him up to surgery."

"I'm telling you he can't be stabilized without surgery.

"You are going to kill him."

"He's going to die anyway if we can't get the bleeding under control. He doesn't have time for us to stand here dithering like a couple of old ladies."

"Fine. But if he dies on the table, his blood is one your hands, not mine."

"Lock and load, people. We're taking him for a ride. Make sure that OR is ready."

"And get her the fuck out of here!"

The ham-handed intern who had nearly botched the defibrillator lead placement scurried to escort Sara from the Emergency Room, sliding though a pool of blood on the tile floor. He grabbed Sara's arm and shoved her out the door, blood from his latex glove transferring to her khaki colored jacket. Brass was pacing outside of the trauma room and raced to grab Sara before her knees gave out. Her face was pinched and tightly drawn, pale, as if she had just confronted death and barely survived to tell the grisly tale. He supported her slight weight and held her upright as he watched the gurney carrying Grissom's body roll out the door and down the hall towards surgery. Brass turned and steered Sara towards the reception area where the rest of the criminalists had assembled. They were all in for a long and difficult evening, one full of tears and memories and what-ifs.

_**Then deep in your heart there's the song of the sailor  
And deep in your heart there's a way that you can go  
So find any star or the song of the Saviour**_  
**_With the tears of the sun falling over the snow_**

Sara collapsed onto the couch in the waiting room, the cracked orange cushions crinkling every time she shifted her slight weight. She was wholly absorbed in her thoughts; unaware of the whispered words of encouragement and consolation swirling past her ears, the screaming sirens just beyond the heavy glass doors, the cries of others waiting, wondering, just like her, the constant stream of misery filtering down the hall. She was concentrating on not concentrating. If she allowed her mind to dwell on the awful possibility that she might really lose Grissom this time, she would collapse. She had to remain strong; she had to fight for both of them. He may have accepted that he was going to die but she had not. Grissom was not going to die; he had promised to never leave her and she was going to hold him to his word.

All that remained was to wait and pray and hope.

Praying and hoping; that was the damned problem, the Sniper thought as he nursed a single beer in a dingy off-strip bar. He didn't mind the waiting though—there was pleasure to be found in the slow anticipation. He had chosen the dimly lit tavern for its lack of patronage, needing somewhere to lay low until he could slide away cleanly. The news stations were still covering the shooting and replaying the footage over and over. A secret thrill raced through his brain and tickled his nerve endings every time he saw that asshole Grissom reach for his neck before crashing to the ground. The Sniper's dark eyes glittered as he watched the blood pour from the dying man's chest. He had purposefully banked the shot instead of going for a straight kill shot to the head. While it would have been immensely satisfying to watch the worthless fucker's brains splatter all over the television reporters, he wanted the criminalist to suffer; to know that he was helpless, to understand in that awful moment of clarity that cleanses the mind before all consciousness is lost that he was going to drown in his own blood and that there was nothing that could be done to save his worthless life.

_**You got to hold the line and have faith in the river  
Look for a sign any way you can go  
For now is the time to stand and deliver  
With the tears of the sun falling over the snow**_

_**"Tears of the Sun" **_**Words and Music by John Stewart**_**  
**_


	4. Chapter Three

**Title:** Sniper 

**Author:** Cropper

**Pairing:** GSR

**Rating:** Mature for Profanity, Graphic Imagery, Adult Situations

**Disclaimer:** I do not own them but I wish I did. I mean no harm or infringement and will return everyone to their rightful owners when I finish, I promise.

**Summary:** A Sniper has returned from prison seeking vengeance on those responsible for his incarceration.

**A/N:** Thank you, **idreamedmusic**, for the beautiful banner. **Smacky30, Cincoflex, Domo Arigato** and anyone else who might have done a beta read on this for me? You ladies are all awesome and I am deeply appreciative of your efforts. **LosingInTranslation** provided invaluable assistance with the medical terminology and is responsible for the wound track diagrams. **atrueparrothead** is responsible for the fantastic video trailer on the index page and has completed another that will be posted with Chapter Six. And finally, a huge thanks to **Cheryl, Lisa, Cindy, Michelle, Muriel** and **Kaye**. They are my constants.

**CHAPTER THREE**

_**Hold on the line  
Wait for a sign  
Slippin' and a slidin' in the hole  
Hold on the line  
Wait for a sign**_  
**_We are diamonds in the coal_**

Patience, he thought as he took another sip of beer. He grimaced as the liquid slid down his throat; he had been so caught up in his thoughts that his lone draught of Budweiser had grown warm. He actually preferred more expensive brews but this seedy little dive did not exactly cater to an upscale clientele and he did not have the luxury of being picky. Right now he needed to blend in, to look as slovenly and disenfranchised as the other patrons. Basic survival instincts, like breathing or taking a nice long piss, urged him to flee; the old fight or flight syndrome. Years of specialized training helped him control the compulsion to run but it was always there, in the back of his brain, whispering commands to his subconscious, compelling his muscles to flex and move. Patience, he reminded himself, patience.

The Sniper glanced back up to the dusty television situated over the bar as the news began recapping the shootings once again. Riveted to the footage of the seemingly random shooting at the Stratosphere, he permitted himself a small triumphant grin. The plan had been executed perfectly, his spotter creating a scene of carnage to lure the CSI's to the killing ground. True, he had not known for sure that Grissom would actually respond to the call but given the current nationwide furor he had caused with his personal vendetta, the odds had been strongly stacked in his favor. And, if Grissom had not shown, they would have just tried again. The spotter had no qualms about slaughtering innocent bystanders; man, woman, child, it made no difference to him, and he would be more than happy with a repeat performance. He frowned a bit at that thought. The spotter, a "friend" he had made in prison, was a psycho, a sadist who got his jollies out of hurting people.

The Sniper sighed. He was going to have to take care of the spotter soon. He would prefer to just call in an anonymous tip, tell the cops where the spotter was hiding and have the asshole arrested. However, he had no guarantee that the spotter would not give him up. The only loyalties the man had were to himself. The Sniper could not take that chance – the spotter had to die. The little freak had served his purpose and had become a liability. He could move faster on his own and could always find another sick bastard willing to do his dirty work. The world was full of sick bastards anxious to hurt people for no reason.

It had been so surprisingly simple, child's play really, to catch Grissom in the crosshairs, the Sniper mused, shaking off all thoughts of the spotter…for now. He loved a good game of hide and seek, especially when he held all of the cards and was doing both the hiding and the seeking. Hell, the bumbling idiot had stumbled right into his line of fire. Things did not get much easier than that. He debated with himself as he lined up the shot, adjusting the scope and checking the rifle's sights. Should he go for an immediate kill shot and reduce the fucker's skull to a pulpy mass of bone and brains or did he bank it? A headshot would provide immediate gratification but a shot to the torso, one that would roll around inside and tear him in half internally, would still accomplish the goal. And Grissom would suffer; feel every ricochet of the bullet as it careened from bone to bone and know that he was going to die, that there was nothing anyone could do to save his worthless life. Suffering was good, very, very good.

The unadulterated pleasure of killing Grissom on live television in front of a national audience had been a huge bonus. He had not anticipated that a simple random shooting spree would draw such attention from the local and national news media but he had been more than willing to milk the unexpected situation for maximum impact and terror. The Sniper was well aware that the FBI had instituted a coast-to-coast manhunt for him, had added him to the "Most Wanted" list, but he knew how to hide, how to blend in. God bless Uncle Sam for teaching him so well. He loved the irony of it all; that he was exploiting the highly specialized training provided by the government to elude the Feds.

He suppressed a slight shudder as Grissom's image flickered on the television. He remembered the rush he felt when Grissom's face had emerged in his scope, how he could practically count every hair on the target's head as he waited for the perfect moment to execute. Even now, hours after the event, his body reacted strongly to a renewed adrenaline surge. He could feel his cock twitch and moved a hand beneath the table to rub along his groin. The more he concentrated on the rush; on the moment he pulled the trigger and watched Grissom drop to the ground, the harder he got. It was almost painful, but oh, so pleasurable, feeling the blood engorge his penis as he watched Grissom's spill all over the ground.

The Sniper stroked more aggressively, glancing about to make sure no one was watching. He could not afford to get caught playing with himself in public like a damn pervert but could not help himself. He knew he needed to stop before he lost control but watching the pathetic wimp call for Sara just excited him more. He loved knowing that Grissom had been in pain and had known that he would never see his beloved Sara again. That satisfaction, knowing how badly the criminalist had been hurting at that precise moment, was almost payment enough for everything that the asshole had stolen from him. Only death would completely clean the slate.

The more Grissom suffered, the more his family suffered, the more the LVPD suffered…well it was all good with him. They had ruined his life. He did not have anywhere to be or anyone to go home to anymore. No, Grissom had seen to that, Grissom and all the others who had railroaded him. Each and every one of them would pay. They would pay with their lives for they had stolen his. Everything he had worked so hard to accomplish, every fucking thing he had sacrificed and sold his soul for had been taken from him. Oh yes, it was eye for an eye time; none of that turning the other cheek shit. He was not into forgiveness these days. Maybe he had been, once, but certainly not now. One by one, little by little, he was carefully exacting his revenge. The hit list, crumpled and ink-smeared from repeated folding and reading, sat on the stained naugahyde bench beside him, hidden from view. His fingers itched to withdraw the Sharpie from his pocket and draw a heavy black line through "Gil Grissom" but the fucker would not die.

He glanced around again, easing his hand from beneath the table. His sexual gratification would have to wait until he was completely safe, not just hiding out and laying low until the initial storm blew over. The Sniper was satisfied with his surroundings for the moment. No one would think to look for a highly skilled assassin in this rundown, seedy bar. He blended in nicely with all of the other losers drowning their sorrows and shuffling to the lone slot machine every now and then to feed in a few nickels and pull the lever. Let it ride, let the little wheels spin. At this point, it was entirely up to fate.

_**Holdin' on the rails  
Clinging with your nails**_  
**_Slippin' and a slidin' in the hole_**  
_**You know without fail  
The tipping of the scales  
We are diamonds in the coal**_

Catherine entered the layout room, glancing at Nick. He was standing at the table, tightly gripping the edge in an effort to remain upright. His head was bowed, broad shoulders slumped and she could hear him sniffling. She quietly cleared her throat and made quite a production out of slowly pulling on a pair of latex gloves, painstakingly smoothing every crease and fold. Nick deserved a few moments to gather his composure. They were all hurting right now, raw and vulnerable. The nightmare of the shooting continuously played out in an endless gruesome loop; it was just below the surface, unexpectedly slamming into focus in every unguarded moment.

Catherine drew a calming breath and gingerly began to remove Grissom's saturated clothing from the bag in which it had been carelessly shoved. She swallowed heavily as she grasped the bottom of the plain brown paper bag that had grown soggy with the blood that had leeched from the items within to soak the bottom and sides. Nick watched with large haunted eyes as she pulled out Grissom's bloody shirt followed by the tattered slacks that had been hurriedly sliced from his body in the Emergency Room, socks, shoes, belt and Forensics windbreaker. The last item to emerge from the bag was a pair of light blue boxers, underwear that had once been plain but was now stiff and bizarrely patterned with dried blood, like a splotchy abstract painting. Nick just stared at Grissom's clothes and bolted out the door.

Tears welled in Catherine's eyes as she lightly fingered the boxers. There was something so pitiable, so invasive, about processing Grissom's shorts, a painful intimacy like that of a husband and wife or even old comfortable lovers sorting and folding laundry, a painful intimacy that she had never been invited to share. She and Grissom had been friends for many years but never to the point where she had ever handled, or even seen, his underwear. A glimpse so personal into such a private man was almost obscene.

Catherine wiped her eyes with her sleeve, not caring in the least that her mascara had left an unsightly black trail across the lavender silk, and turned to the other bag, the one containing Grissom's personal effects. She shuddered as she started unloading the bag. "Personal effects" – the term evoked a fatal finality that she absolutely refused to consider. She instead focused her attention on the mundane articles that Grissom carried with him as he went about his daily life. Catherine examined each object thoughtfully as she carefully set it aside, regarding them with sad fondness and familiarity. She blanched a bit as she picked up his watch. The plain white face rounded with silver was smeared dark red and she could feel the unmistakable dampness of the black leather band even through the protective barrier of her gloves. The watch was followed by his black-rimmed reading glasses, LVPD identification badge, assorted coins, thick black leather wallet, a few paper clips, a plain silver ring heavy with keys, a small jar of menthol, cell phone, pager, a pair of latex gloves, a strange bronze medallion with some sort of insignia on both sides and a small black box.

She immediately recognized the significance of the last item. The little box was covered in crushed black velvet and bore the gold embossed logo of a very exclusive jewelry store. She turned the box over and over in her hand, trying to decide whether to open it or not. Catherine knew she had no right to look inside, that privilege belonged only to Sara, but she was insanely curious as to what sort of ring Grissom might choose.

Catherine was still staring at the box, still debating, when Nick reentered the room. His eyes were a little puffy but he had managed to regain some semblance of control over his ragged emotions. He had been a part of the search party a couple of years ago after Grissom's automobile accident, had overheard Grissom and Sara's first awkward declaration of love, had seen his boss's mangled body in the tangled wreck of the little compact car and had held Sara's hand as both she and Grissom fought for his survival. Nick had thought those terrible days past, hours and weeks safely locked away in memory never to be revisited. He had to be strong now, for Sara and for Grissom. But first, he had to be strong for himself.

Nick risked a glance at Catherine, surprised to see her mesmerized by a jeweler's box. She was practically boring holes into the thing, like she had x-ray vision or something.

"Are you going to open it?" he finally asked, his voice still a bit husky and rough.

Catherine looked at him, startled. She had not heard him come back in the room and was a little chagrined that she had been caught. "I don't think we should, Nick. He obviously hasn't given it to Sara yet. It's not really fair to peek."

"Oh, come on, Cath. You know you're dying to see what's in there."

She sighed. Yes, she wanted to look but could not bring herself to do so. She knew that Grissom had originally scheduled the night off so that he could have a quiet, romantic dinner with Sara and propose. Catherine had been shocked when he had called in to say that he would be available to work. He would not discuss the evening with her other than to say that Sara had forgotten about their date. He had brushed off any further attempts at conversation and had retreated behind his mask of stoicism. The call for the drive-by shooting had come in a few minutes later and that had been that.

"No, Nick. I'm not going to open it," she finally decided. "Whatever is in this box is between Grissom and Sara."

"Are you going to give it to her?" Nick asked.

Catherine sighed. "I don't know. None of this stuff," she waved her hand, indicating Grissom's personal belongings, "has any relevance to the case. I honestly don't see why she shouldn't have it right now. But, I just don't think…" her voice trailed off.

Nick looked at her, watching her struggle with the decision. "What's the problem then?"

"The problem, Nick," she began, her voice taking on a hard edge, "is that he was going to give it to her tonight but she stood him up. I don't know if he still wants her to have it."

"You've got to be kidding me," Nick exclaimed, disbelief coloring his tone. "You really think something like that would make him back off?"

"That's just it. I don't know. He wouldn't talk about it."

"Catherine? Those two have been to hell and back together. I think he'd still want her to have it."

They were silent for a moment, both debating the situation in their own minds. Nick was the first to break the silence.

"She didn't know he was going to propose, did she." It was a statement, not a question.

Catherine shook her head. "Probably not."

"And the only reason he was even on call tonight was because she forgot about their dinner date," Nick continued in a thoughtful tone. "Oh, man. She has got to be feeling guilty as hell right now."

Catherine simply nodded this time. Nick was starting to see all of the tragic implications associated with the jeweler's box. The crushed velvet container represented much more than just a simple engagement ring; it was a Pandora's Box of remorse and shame, questions that might never be voiced and answers that might never be heard.

She looked at Nick and began to carefully pack Grissom's belongings into a clean bag.

"I'm going to let her have all of this. She can decide what to do."

"Cath, if he dies and she sees the ring, it'll kill her."

"Yeah, well, she did this, she made her choices. Let her live with 'em. We're just following protocol here."

Nick winced. Catherine was right, he knew that, but it just seemed so brutal. Sara did deserve to have Grissom's stuff, but the ring? He blew out a breath and ran his hand over his shaved head. He understood what Catherine was feeling, even agreed with it on some level, but Sara would be eaten alive with guilt. Did they have the right to put her through that? Then again, did they have the right to keep something like this from her? Nick hated being in this position, the whole no-win scenario where there was no right and no wrong. The indistinct, unfocused gray area that lay between the two diametrically opposed points of the moral compass battling between conscience and friendship was the source of restless thoughts and, ultimately, nightmares.

"You have anything to say?" she asked.

He opened his mouth to respond but thought better of it and merely shook his head. Nick really had nothing to say at this point. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen and there was nothing they could do to change the outcome. Grissom was either going to live or he was going to die. The whole fucked up situation was totally out of their hands; there was nothing they could say or do to help Grissom. No one knew what was going to happen during the course of the next few hours. Maybe Cath was right and they should just let it ride, let the little wheels spin. At this point, it was entirely up to fate.

_**Don't give up now  
Make it through somehow  
Though we're slippin' and a slidin' in the hole  
And if we're in the night  
There's bound to be a light  
Like a diamond in the coal**_

Sara sat stiffly on the garish sofa in the waiting room, eyes glued to the wall directly in front of her. Lost in her thoughts, she noticed nothing, recognized nothing. She channeled all of her concentration towards the operating room. Grissom needed all of the strength she could muster. He might have given up but she had not and she was prepared to expend every ounce of energy she possessed to help him fight. She knew Greg was seated beside her, periodically reaching over to rub her shoulder or ask if she needed anything but she refused to acknowledge his meager attempts at comforting her. She did not need the help, Grissom did.

Greg was worried. Several people, friends and colleagues alike, had come and gone throughout the surgery but he knew Sara had no inkling of who had spoken to her or what they had said. He had witnessed this before, waiting with her after the automobile accident, and he was more frightened now than he had been those scant two years ago. Greg had insisted on staying to provide moral support and no one had argued. Sara needed a friend and the rest of them had work to do.

His eyes narrowed a bit as he gazed towards the stranger in the chair next to the sofa. The man had said nothing, had not introduced himself, but certainly knew Sara since he had driven her to the hospital. Greg did not know who he was but he did not like the way he was eyeing Sara like she was some prize for him to win. He was going to have to keep an eye on this guy. Sara's defenses were down and she was extremely vulnerable.

Justin had remained, seated in a chair a respectable distance away leafing through magazines while watching the interplay between Greg and Sara. Honestly, until the Under Sheriff had said something on television, he had no idea that Sara was involved with anyone, let alone married. She did not wear a wedding band, maybe it was just one of those common law situations where they had felt it unnecessary to exchange vows. At any rate, he was not going to alter his plans. He had cast his eye upon Sara the moment she joined the doctoral program and he meant to have her. A woman with her looks and intellect would be a considerable asset in the university's social circles. Plus, well, as much as it burned his considerable ego to admit it, she was a better scientist than he would ever be and he yearned to exploit her talents and knowledge to propel him further up the academic ladder. He hated the publish or perish situation he was in right now and she could help get him out of it, or at the very least, do his writing for him.

The young man with her? He was no threat. He looked to be nothing more than a friend, concerned about both Sara and this Grissom character. Grissom…Grissom…who was this Grissom? The only Grissom that came to mind was Dr. Gil Grissom, an entomologist of some renown who was a criminalist for the LVPD crime lab. It had to be the same guy. Hell, based on what he had seen on television, there was no way the geezer could even hope to survive the shooting. Even if he did manage to survive the initial trauma, he was already old and would probably be an invalid. Sara would not tie herself down to someone like that. No, Sara had far too much fire and zest for life to limit herself to whatever pathetic world a tired old man in a wheel chair could ever hope to offer. Sara would be his. He would bide his time and wait, do the whole supportive friend thing and she would simply fall into his arms. Let it ride, let the little wheels spin. At this point, it was entirely up to fate.

_**We are diamonds, we are diamonds  
We are diamonds in the coal**_

**TO BE CONTINUED…**

**_"Diamonds in the Coal" Words and Music by John Stewart_**


	5. Chapter Four

**Title:** Sniper 

**Author:** Cropper

**Pairing:** GSR

**Rating:** Mature for Profanity, Graphic Imagery, Adult Situations

**Disclaimer:** I do not own them but I wish I did. I mean no harm or infringement and will return everyone to their rightful owners when I finish, I promise.

**Summary:** A Sniper has returned from prison seeking vengeance on those responsible for his incarceration.

**A/N:** Thank you, **idreamedmusic**, for the beautiful banner. **Smacky30, Cincoflex, Domo Arigato** and anyone else who might have done a beta read on this for me? You ladies are all awesome and I am deeply appreciative of your efforts. **LosingInTranslation** provided invaluable assistance with the medical terminology and is responsible for the wound track diagrams. **atrueparrothead** is responsible for the fantastic video trailer on the index page and has completed another that will be posted with Chapter Six. And finally, a huge thanks to **Cheryl, Lisa, Cindy, Michelle, Muriel** and **Kaye**. They are my constants.

**Additional Note...**If you view this Chapter on my web site, there are diagrams to clarify the path of the bullet. You can find the web address in my profile.

**CHAPTER FOUR**

_**Oh there is a train and it runs by my room  
And it wakes me up in the middle of the night  
At the arch of the rising moon  
It says, "Do you know who you are?  
Do you know where you're going?  
Will you survive, yeah  
In the fire when the wind is blowing?**_

Warrick finished processing the Sniper's bunker atop a twenty-four hour greasy spoon near the Stratosphere and blew out a sigh of frustration. The scene was absolutely pristine. The Sniper had left nothing probative, no fibers, no shell casings, not even a candy wrapper or half-chewed wad of gum. Despite the fact the rooftop was coated with several layers of dust and grime, Warrick found no footprints or fabric impressions from where the Sniper might have knelt while scoping out his target. He could discern the faint sweeping marks from a broom or a whisk leading from the access door to the waist-high ledge running around the roof where the Sniper had obviously cleaned up after himself. This Sniper guy is good, Warrick thought, very careful, very meticulous and very unlikely to make a stupid mistake. This dude gave a whole new meaning to the term "elusive" and was going to be next to impossible to catch.

The only item Warrick did find was an object the Sniper had obviously wanted found; a small bronze medallion with what appeared to be the crosshairs of a rifle scope on one side and the insignia of the LVPD SWAT Team on the reverse. He flipped it over and over in his gloved hand thoughtfully, wondering about the significance. It was the first such trinket the Sniper had ever left behind. Did the medallion hold a clue to his identity or were they merely being taunted?

Warrick bagged the coin and gave the area one more look before making his way down from the roof and to the Denali. He held the steering wheel in a chokehold as his emotions and intellect waged a furious inner war. He knew he had to get the evidence to the lab to ensure chain of custody, but he was swept by a sudden overwhelming need to drive to the hospital as quickly as possible. He had been able to block all thoughts of Grissom's condition from his mind while he had been processing the scene, but now that the task had been completed his thoughts ran freely towards his mentor.

He checked his cell phone and pager, hoping for an update, anything new to relieve the sick feeling of dread rolling around in the pit of his stomach. Catherine had called to let him know that Grissom was in surgery several hours ago. Surely they had some new information by now. He shook his head in frustration, easing out into traffic to head towards the lab. He would drop and log the evidence and then drive to the hospital. As much as he wanted to head to Desert Palms immediately to find out what was happening with the boss, he would not take a chance with any evidence that might help them find the sorry bastard who gunned down Grissom.

_**Ah, there is a train and it runs by my room  
And the train is called reality  
And it's coming way too soon  
Way too soon for a guy  
Who is living on the lies  
Looking for the short cut  
****And the secrets to survive**_

Brass and McKeen paused before the Captain's office, rehashing what they knew about the shooting and discussing what evidence, if any, had been found at the scene. The Under Sheriff wanted, no needed, a full understanding of the evening's events before he met with the Federal Task Force coordinating the manhunt for the Sniper. He had already stepped on several powerful toes that evening by playing political hardball and insisting that Grissom's team process the scene. Granted, protocol stipulated that the case be turned over to the task force since the Sniper was working his way across the country, had crossed multiple state and jurisdictional boundaries and because the Night Shift was too close, too emotionally involved to be objective. McKeen knew better. Grissom trained that team and if nothing else, they would honor the man with the best, most objective and untainted work they had ever performed in their careers.

"Okay, here's how I think it went down," Brass began, laying out the most plausible scenario for the Under Sheriff. "Most snipers, especially those with military training, work with a second person, a spotter. Now, under normal circumstances, the sniper and the spotter would work as a team to figure out the range of the target, read the wind and anything else that might affect the shot so that one pull of the trigger is all that's needed. The spotter's most important job is to protect the sniper and the mission."

McKeen gave Brass a curious look as the Captain paused to draw a quick breath. Brass saw the look and flashed a sardonic grin. "I was a good Marine, remember?"

The Under Sheriff nodded and urged Brass to continue.

"This guy used a spotter this time but in a different way. He used the spotter to create chaos so he could slip in, take his shot and slip back out without anyone noticing. It was pretty damn smart, really. No one, not even the spotter, knew where the sniper was going to set up shop."

"Wait. Hold on a minute," McKeen said. "I have read everything the task force has on this guy and there is absolutely no evidence that he has ever worked with an accomplice, a 'spotter' before."

"That we know of. We need to pull everything…"

"Brass, this is a Federal case under Federal jurisdiction. I already made a lot of enemies tonight by refusing the Feds access to the scene until Grissom's team finished processing. I can't go waltzing into their staging area right now and demand…"

"I don't give a rat's ass about the Feds," said Brass, his anger starting to rise to the surface. "I want everything. Look, Jeff, Grissom knows who it is, says he is somewhere in the old closed case files."

"He knows? Why hasn't he said anything?" McKeen clenched his teeth. He had given Grissom the perfect opportunity to tell him the Sniper's identity before the impromptu press conference earlier. Or had he? He had asked if the drive by shooting at the Stratosphere was the work of the Sniper, not if Grissom knew the Sniper's identity. Yes, he had given the criminalist an opening to share his suspicions, but he had failed to ask the proper questions. Grissom would never volunteer information without solid supporting evidence, especially within earshot of the media.

"He wasn't sure until tonight. He said if he became a target, then we would know he was right."

The Under Sheriff sighed with frustration. "What was the case?"

"He didn't have time to go into details," Brass responded, "but said it goes back roughly thirteen years, something we worked together a long time ago."

"So you're saying that this whole thing last night, the drive-by, was staged to draw Grissom out into the open so the Sniper could get a clean shot at him?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"Jim, how do we even know for sure that it's the same perp? You say he worked with an accomplice this time, which has never been his M.O. And, he went for a body shot this time instead of a head shot, which he has never done before. I hate to be blunt, but this guy doesn't screw around with body shots. He just blasts his target's head to smithereens and moves on to the next. Nothing about Grissom's shooting fits the profile the FBI has built but you are insisting that it is the same guy."

"Yeah, I'm insisting, because I know I'm right. I'm telling you, he orchestrated everything that happened tonight and this particular hit was extremely personal. He aimed for the body because he wanted Gil to suffer before he died."

"Was Grissom aware of this last night?"

"That this was a set up?"

McKeen nodded, hoping that Grissom had not gone renegade and dangled himself as a lure.

"He considered the possibility."

"Then why wasn't he wearing a damn vest?" McKeen nearly shouted. "What the hell was he thinking?"

"I tried to make him wear one. Trust me, I tried. I did everything short of begging but Gil's a very stubborn man and he had his reasons."

"Which were?"

"First, he didn't want to tip off the Sniper that we are on to him. Second, the Sniper would be able to see that he was wearing the vest and just blow his head off. You said it yourself, this guy has always gone for a clean kill; one shot to the head, no fuss no muss. Third? He said that the vest hadn't done a whole lot to protect me."

McKeen mulled this over for a few moments, dreading the answer to his next question. "He wasn't acting as bait, was he?"

"What? You mean suicide by Sniper?" Brass snorted. "Not a chance. The man was getting ready to propose."

"Really?" McKeen's lips curled into a small, bittersweet smile.

Brass just shrugged. "He mentioned it a couple of weeks ago."

The Under Sheriff cleared his throat, returning to the conversation at hand. "You two worked whatever case this was together?" Brass simply nodded. "Then this guy is going to come after you as well."

"Probably. Yeah. Look, it doesn't matter. I'm not going to waste time looking over my shoulder because some idiot is on a self-proclaimed mission from God. We need to get to Desert Palms and talk to Grissom as soon as he gets out of surgery. It'll be a hell of a lot quicker than going through all of the closed cases from that far back. But…"

His cell phone rang and Brass held up a single finger in a silent request that McKeen give him a moment as he barked a one word greeting into the phone.

"I'll get some people going through those old files anyway," McKeen said, completing the thought while Brass listened and nodded in agreement to whoever was on the other end of the call.

Brass closed his phone with a decisive snap and looked at the Under Sheriff. "Let's go. That was Catherine. She and Nick just finished processing Grissom's clothes, found nothing and are going to the hospital. We need to head over there to find out how soon we can talk to him."

**_And there are forces to guide you_**  
_**Spirits beside you  
Rivers to ride you home to the stars  
And there are forces to guide you  
Spirits beside you  
Rivers to ride you home to the stars**_

Dr. John Clark slowly shuffled towards the waiting room, dreading the impending conversation with his patient's family. He quickly scanned his scrubs for any trace of blood as he approached the group of law enforcement personnel waiting for an update. Exhaustion tempered his steps as he drew closer, aware of the anxious eyes trained on his face as if trying to ascertain if the news he was about to deliver was good or bad.

"I'm Dr. John Clark," he began, clearing his voice. "I'm the lead physician coordinating Dr. Grissom's care and was in charge of the surgical team that worked to stabilize his condition."

He looked around, expecting someone to interrupt with the all too familiar, "Is he going to be okay?" but these people were strangely silent. The patient had been gunned down on live television and this group had more than just a layperson's knowledge of gun shot wounds and anatomy. They had probably already figured out that the prognosis was not good and were waiting for confirmation of their fears.

Dr. Clark drew a deep breath and began the grim recitation of Grissom's wounds. "Let me start by saying that it is a miracle Dr. Grissom is still alive. From what we can tell from the path of the projectile, the shooter basically aimed for a bank shot into the thoracic cavity. The intended result was to definitely maximize damage, pain and to prolong his suffering by forcing Dr. Grissom to essentially drown in his own blood. If the paramedics had not been on the scene when this shooting occurred, I can assure you that we would not be having this conversation. Dr. Grissom would simply have bled out long before help arrived."

He paused to let his audience absorb the information. Brass turned a knowing eye to McKeen, giving the Under Sheriff a smug smile. He hated that Gil had been the victim in this sadistic game, but could not resist tossing McKeen a little dig. Grissom would not mind or think his behavior inappropriate. Hell, Brass knew that if their positions were reversed, Gil would be unable to resist the opportunity to stick out his tongue at both the Under Sheriff and the Feds. Mc Keen acknowledged Brass' minor triumph and insistence that the shooting had indeed been personal with a slight nod as Dr. Clark continued.

"The bullet entered below the right trapezius, just to the wayward side of the spine and continued right until it bounced off the right shoulder girdle and tore through the upper lobe of the right lung. After leaving the lung it careened along the fourth rib of the right side where it was forced towards the left side of the body and hit the sternum. The impact with the sternum forced it to change direction again, bruising the pericardial sac and moving through the center of the left lung. The damage to the pericardial sac led to bleeding inside the space between it and the heart. The severe pressure from this bleeding is what brought on the resultant cardiac arrest when Dr. Grissom arrived in the Emergency Room. After the projectile left the lung, it hit the seventh rib and skimmed along the bone until it was able to penetrate the intercostal muscle and finally exit the body through the chest wall."

Brass cleared his throat and interrupted the surgeon. "Uh, Dr. Clark? I'm sure some folks here," he said, motioning to Doc Robbins, "got all of that medical mumbo jumbo you were tossing around, but I'm just a dumb cop. You're going to have to repeat all of that in simple terms for me."

The surgeon nodded and tried again. "Basically, the bullet entered high on the right shoulder, just missing the spine. It hit the shoulder bone, near the socket, went down a little to penetrate the top of the right lung, hit a rib and then bounced back to the left towards the sternum. From there, the bullet passed across the protective sac around the heart and through left lung, skimmed along another rib before finally exiting the body through the chest wall low on the left side."

He could tell by the winces and grimaces from his audience that he had reached them all this time.

"Now, the worst of all of this damage was a partial pneumothorax, or collapsed lung, on the right side and a complete collapse of the left. We inserted a chest tube on the right before surgery and were able to inflate that lung. We repaired the damage caused by the bullet and are confident that Dr. Grissom will retain full use of that lung. Unfortunately, the left lung was more substantially damaged than the right and while we were able to stop the bleeding, we are not certain as to whether or not that lung will continue to be viable. The heart has suffered some deep bruising and there is a distinct possibility of permanent muscle damage resulting from the considerable blood loss and pressure that built up between the heart and the pericardium. Finally, the right subclavian artery that branches off from the right carotid and runs along the right collarbone was extensively damaged upon the bullet's initial impact. The bottom line here, all possible future complications and concerns aside, is that Dr. Grissom lost a hell of a lot of blood and was without oxygen for just over four minutes."

The surgeon paused again, drawing a huge breath and taking a sip from a water bottle offered by one of the criminalists. He gave them a moment to gather their thoughts and to let his audience fully absorb the unpleasant implications of his last statement.

Doc Robbins, who had been sitting quietly on the sofa next to Sara and Greg, finally broke the terrible silence. "Any damage to the phrenic nerve?"

"Surprisingly enough, no. The thoracic surgeon was frankly amazed that the nerve was not compromised in any way and that the diaphragm escaped injury as well. Dr. Grissom's breathing issues stem wholly from his lungs right now."

Doc nodded, satisfied with the answer. Grissom's situation, while bad enough, would have been much worse had the phrenic nerve been damaged and part of the diaphragm paralyzed. The physician waited a moment to see if there were any more questions before continuing his recitation.

"Dr. Grissom is essentially stable right now, breathing with some assistance from a mechanical ventilator that is attached to the endotracheal tube. The larger problem now is that he has lapsed into a very deep coma. We've patched him up, stopped all of the bleeding and he's received several transfusions. We have no way of knowing at this time if the period of oxygen depravation caused any significant brain damage. We'll simply have to wait and see."

"Wait and see for what?" demanded Nick.

"The brain damage can't be fully quantified unless or until the patient regains consciousness. But the question of brain damage may very well be moot since he still has to emerge from the coma. Honestly, given his age and the extent of his injuries, the odds just aren't in his favor. It's a serious long shot, folks."

"Yeah, but this is Vegas, man," said Warrick. "Anything can happen when you spin the wheel. I'm willing to make book and ride that dark horse."

_**There is a voice shouting in my head  
And there is a voice  
That is singing there instead  
And there is a choice  
To which one will I listen  
For one the road is long and hard  
The other yeah, the road will glisten**_

"I want to see him."

All heads turned to regard the speaker of the softly uttered command, the first words Sara had spoken since taking a seat in the waiting room.

"I'm sorry, Miss," Dr. Clark began, prepared to recite the numerous reasons why no one would be allowed in the ICU. He took in the young brunette's appearance, noticing the haunted eyes and tear-stained cheeks. Despite the fact that her hands were tightly clenched and her weight was shifting back and forth from one foot to the other, she was remarkably composed.

"I want to see him. Now."

Dr. Clark opened his mouth but Sara began talking before he could give voice to his thoughts.

"You don't think he'll recover, do you."

The surgeon shook his head slowly; a painful admission that he held no hope that Grissom would survive, let alone emerge from the coma.

"If he's going to die anyway, what difference does it make whether I'm in the room or not?" Sara countered. "Besides, haven't numerous studies published in respected and credible medical journals shown that people in comas can hear what is being said and know what is going on around them?"

"Miss?" Dr. Clark paused, waiting for Sara to supply her name.

"Sidle. Sara Sidle."

"Miss Sidle. You are correct in that there are several compelling accounts about patients hearing conversations while in a comatose state and even having distinct thoughts and reactions to those discussions. However…."

"Look," Sara interrupted, unwilling to listen to any more explanations or excuses, "I am going in there. You can either show me where he is or I will find him myself." She stood there, hands on hips, brown eyes blazing, chin jutted defiantly towards the ceiling, daring the surgeon to refuse.

Dr. Clark blew out a breath and held his tongue. He did not want to argue with this woman. He was tired. His back hurt, his feet hurt, and all he wanted after eight grueling hours in the operating room was some peace and quiet and a cup of very strong coffee. He knew that this rather formidable wisp of a woman would not afford him the opportunity to enjoy any of the simple comforts he desired until she was allowed to see the patient. He grudgingly started to lead Sara down the hall when he suddenly turned, walked over to Brass and dropped something into the Captain's hand. "I almost forgot. Here's the bullet."

Brass gingerly accepted the projectile from the surgeon, carefully turning it over in his hand as if testing its weight. He knew that the bullet had exited from Grissom's body; he had pressed his hands to the wound trying to staunch the flow of blood. "Where was it?"

Dr. Clark allowed himself a small smile of admiration. "He was holding it in his left hand."

Brass and the CSI's stared at each other while shaking their heads in amazement. Once a criminalist, always a criminalist and Grissom was one of the best. Only he would think to recover evidence as he lay in the middle of the street slowly drowning in his own blood.

Catherine glanced at the plain brown bag in her hands. Her eyes darted from the bag to Sara and back to the bag as she struggled to reach a decision.

"Sara, wait," she called, walking rapidly after Sara and Dr. Clark.

Sara paused and turned towards Catherine, lips pursed into a grimace as she struggled to choke back a rude response. No one was going to keep her from Grissom, not even Catherine. Sara knew she meant well and that she and Grissom were very old, very good friends, but there was no way anyone was going to keep her from entering that room.

"Here," the older woman said, as she thrust the bag forcefully into Sara's chest. Sara arched an inquisitive eyebrow, silently questioning Catherine's actions.

Catherine cleared her throat and all but hissed her words out in a rushed statement. "This is what he had on him when he was shot. We thought you might want to hang onto it until he needs it again."

_**And not a day goes by that I don't think I'm crazy  
And not a day goes by  
That the answers don't seem hazy  
Sometimes I'm lost and I'm down and out  
But then I'm lost and lazy  
But if I were lost in the middle of the light  
You know it would surely save me**_

Wait and see. Hurry up and wait. Some things never changed. Did he wait for the fucker to die before going after the next person on the list or continue towards the final objective? He turned that thought over and over in his mind as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He sat, engine of his gray sedan idling, in the Visitor's Parking Lot of Desert Palms. He had been waiting thirteen years to exact revenge. Did one lousy day really matter? And, once the other targets were eliminated, he could easily slip inside the hospital and dispatch Grissom with relative ease if the asshole managed to make it through surgery. But would the fact that Grissom was still breathing render the mission a failure or merely add an unforeseen twist that would ultimately enhance his need for vengeance?

The criminalist's testimony all those years ago had done more damage to his cause than all of the other witnesses combined. Without Grissom, the prosecution would not have had a case. His fellow officers, brothers in arms, would have attributed the shooting to lousy audio equipment and an overabundance of adrenaline and that would have been the end of it. Oh, he was certain that he would have received a slap to the wrist and a written reprimand in his personnel file, maybe even a suspension, but he would not have been so thoroughly disgraced and he would not have done hard time. No, Grissom and his damn sanctimonious mouth had slammed the cell door.

Thirteen years of solitary confinement had taken their toll on the Sniper. He had been pulled out of the general prison population for his own safety. Cops, and he had been labeled as a bad one, did not fare well with the other inmates. He was forced to spend thirteen long and lonely years staring at three gray walls and a door of bars for twenty-three hours a day. He had no visitors; his wife and kids moved out of state once he was convicted, and the only real thoughts he had to occupy his time were delicious thoughts of revenge towards all of those responsible for his incarceration.

The Sniper reached a decision. If Grissom survived, he would let him live. Hell, he would probably be a cripple and most likely suffer, to some degree, brain damage as well. The criminalist would be forced to live out the remainder of his life much as the Sniper had lived the previous thirteen years. Grissom would be forced to struggle just to live to see another day. He would finally experience the total isolation and confinement that he had forced upon the Sniper. Killing Grissom would be too kind. He was going to know, first hand, just what is was like to be placed in a cage and forgotten.

The Sniper grabbed the gearshift, slipped the transmission into drive and slowly left the hospital. He had plans to make and a few more names to cross off his list. His mission was drawing to a close.

_**Be saved  
And this guy who is living on the lies  
Looking for a short cut  
And the secret to survive**_

Sara stood in the doorway, taking in the scene before her while trying to summon the courage to approach the still form on the bed. She had more than a passing familiarity with much of the equipment situated around the room, painful memories of Grissom's last prolonged hospitalization rising momentarily to the surface before she stuffed them back into a dark corner of her mind. Her eyes lingered on the tube protruding from his mouth and followed the tubing to a rasping ventilator humming and wheezing with mechanical precision; forcing his chest to rise and fall with each breath it blew into his savaged lungs.

She approached the bed slowly, not wanting to disturb him although she knew that he was most likely unaware of her presence. Sara was relieved to see that his skin was now a ghostly pale instead of the bloodless gray tone it had assumed in the emergency room. His dark lashes stood out in stark contrast against the whiteness of his cheeks and she could barely make out a hint of stubble along his upper lip and jaw line. She reached out a trembling hand and softly stroked his matted hair, murmuring softly in his ear.

"Hey, Grissom. How you doing, Baby? Are they taking good care of you? Giving you plenty of good meds so you don't hurt?"

She pulled back, looking at the various monitors to see if her words had managed to elicit some sort of response. The blips and colored lines registered no change.

Sara slipped her free hand into one of his, recoiling in shock at the dry coolness of his skin. She swallowed the lump in her throat, grasped his hand and started whispering again.

"Are you going to wake up and talk to me soon? It is kind of lonely sitting here all by myself. I need you to wake up and keep me company. Can you do that for me, Gris? Open those beautiful blue eyes or give my hand a squeeze to let me know you are listening?"

He lay motionless, the only signs of life coming from the steady pulses of the heart monitor and rhythmic exhalations of the ventilator. Sara sighed heavily and pulled a chair to the edge of the bed.

"I know you're angry with me for standing you up tonight. I didn't mean to, I swear. I know how important this day is to you and would never intentionally ditch you on our anniversary. I just got caught up in a new phase of the project and totally lost track of time. You know how I am when I am working, that I forget about everything else until I reach a stopping point. It wasn't until I saw you on TV tonight that I remembered our date. And, yeah, I know this is all my fault. If I had gotten home on time you never would have gone into work tonight and none of this would have happened." She choked back a sob, fighting to finish.

"I hate myself for making you suffer like this. If I could, I would take your place in a heartbeat, Baby, you know I would. I never meant to hurt you but it seems that is all I have done lately. Grissom, you've got to pull through. I can't do any of this without you. I don't want to do this without you. You are what keeps me going and gets me through the day. Knowing that I get to come home to you gives meaning to everything I do."

Sara stopped talking, too overcome by raw emotion to continue. She looked around the sterile room, trying to find something to take her mind off her grief and guilt for just a while. She knew she would be facing these demons time and time again in the next few days.

Her foot nudged the brown paper bag Catherine had stuffed into her arms. She had forgotten that she placed it beside the chair and started pawing through the bag. She needed something tangible, something uniquely Grissom to hold, a touchstone to help her gather strength for the sleepless days and nights that lay ahead. She pulled out his reading glasses and as she reached back into the bag in search of his watch, her hand encountered something small and fuzzy.

Sara's brows knitted in confusion as she pulled the object into the light and gasped aloud when she saw the little black box. She felt a harsh prickling at the back of her eyes as she hesitantly lifted the lid and peeked inside. Her watery gaze rose to the lifeless form beside her and a sob squeaked from her lips. A torrent soon followed and her slight body shook violently; the full weight of her shame and sorrow finally consuming her.

_**And there are forces to guide you  
Spirits beside you  
Rivers to ride you home to the stars  
And there are forces to guide you  
Spirits beside you  
Rivers to ride you home to the stars**_

_**Believing in the stars  
And living in the stars  
And dying in the stars**_  
**_And home to the stars_**

**TO BE CONTINUED…**

**_"Ticket to the Stars" Words and Music by John Stewart_**


	6. Chapter Five

**Title:** Sniper 

**Author:** Cropper

**Pairing:** GSR

**Rating:** Mature for Profanity, Graphic Imagery, Adult Situations

**Disclaimer:** I do not own them but I wish I did. I mean no harm or infringement and will return everyone to their rightful owners when I finish, I promise.

**Summary:** A Sniper has returned from prison seeking vengeance on those responsible for his incarceration.

**A/N:** Thank you, **idreamedmusic**, for the beautiful banner. **Smacky30, Cincoflex, Domo Arigato** and anyone else who might have done a beta read or just kicked around ideas with me? You ladies are all awesome and I am deeply appreciative of your efforts. **LosingInTranslation** provided invaluable assistance with the medical terminology and is responsible for the wound track diagrams. **atrueparrothead** is responsible for the fantastic video trailer on the index page and has completed another that will be posted with Chapter Six. And finally, a huge thanks to **Cheryl, Lisa, Cindy, Michelle, Muriel** and **Kaye**. They are my constants.

** CHAPTER FIVE**

**_They were travelers in the night  
They're the ones who held the light  
And they whispered it's alright  
And the Promise came_**

**_  
And there are those who rode the line  
They're the keepers of the wine  
It all happens in good time  
And the Promise rang  
The Day the River Sang_**

Brass and Catherine were holed up in a conference room at the police station, staring mournfully at the piles of cardboard boxes crammed full of old, dusty case files. Warrick was still working the Sniper case and had been temporarily assigned to the Federal task force. Nick and Greg alternated between working the drive-by shooting at the Stratosphere and visiting the hospital to keep everyone updated in the event that there was any change in Grissom's condition. They were also keeping a very close eye on Justin and offering what moral support they could for Sara.

"God," Catherine exclaimed, blowing her hair out of her face as she looked at the neatly stacked cartons with dismay. "There must be a couple thousand files here."

Brass looked at her. "I guess the Under Sheriff didn't see fit to have clerical pull only the ones involving Grissom and me." He rolled his eyes as he motioned to the files. "Hope you don't have any plans tonight. We're going to be here awhile."

"And, you're not even positive we're searching the right year?"

"Gil wasn't real specific. He said about thirteen years ago, give or take."

Catherine looked around, trying to decide on a plan of action. "All right, here's what we're going to do. Anything that you and Gil worked together goes here. Anything you worked without Gil goes here. Everything Gil worked without you, here. The rest of it just chuck back in the box. Sound good?"

"Whatever. Look, let's just get this over with. The sooner we find the file, the sooner we catch this bastard." He paused for a moment, his tone decidedly softer when he spoke again. "Any word from the hospital?"

"No," said Catherine, her voice barely above a whisper. "Nick checked in a little while ago and said there was no change. Gil is still in a coma and Sara is still sitting with him."

"How's Sara holding up?"

Catherine just shrugged. "Hard to tell. She won't talk to anyone but Grissom and won't leave his side."

"Do I detect some hostility there, Catherine?"

"Yeah, you probably do but I've got my reasons, okay?"

Brass returned her shrug with one of his own. "Sure. Whatever."

**_And the day I first found you  
That's when I heard the clue  
And I knew that it was true  
When the Promise came _**

**_And we stood beneath the trees  
Where the Vision was to be  
And it was only you and me  
And the Promise came  
The Day the River Sang  
The Day the River Sang _**

Sara sat sprawled in a chair by Grissom's bed, one hand tightly grasping and stroking his larger lifeless one, the other holding the open ring box. She was mesmerized by the shards of light dancing off the stone in the muted glow of the sterile room. The rainbow refractions added a flash of welcome color, relieving the somber monotony of grays and silvers and whites. Grissom had excellent taste, she thought, gazing upon the two-carat oval diamond nestled in a simple platinum setting. She knew him well enough to understand that this stunning ring was tangible evidence of not only his love for her, but also a three dimensional snapshot of her reflection through his eyes…quietly beautiful with an understated elegance, qualities he once told her few men could ignore, let alone resist.

Sara released Grissom's cool, dry hand long enough to pluck the ring from its velvet bed and slide it onto her finger. She swiped at a lone tear trickling down her cheek before renewing her physical connection with her lover. She scooted her chair closer and laid her head gently on his thigh, trying not to hurt him but desperately craving more contact than holding his limp fingers could possibly provide. She sniffled once before speaking in a trembling voice.

"God, Baby, how did things get so screwed up? I had no idea you were going to do this. I would've said yes, you know that, don't you? And if you want to wake up and ask me right now I'll say yes. Whenever, wherever, Gris, the answer will always be yes."

Sara stole a glance at the monitors, hoping for some sort of response. Regardless of the incomplete and often conflicting data concerning awareness and responsiveness of coma patients, she knew that he could, on some level, hear and understand what she was saying. She glared at the neon lines marching patiently across the LCD screens, willing them to change, to show her something, anything, a small hiccup in the monotonous patterns to signify that he was hearing and comprehending her naked confession.

Her head dropped back to his thigh, nuzzling against the rough cotton blanket as she struggled to find the appropriate words to convey all that she was feeling. "Last night…I don't even know how to explain last night. I know you probably saw it as a rejection; but that's not what happened. I totally lost track of time and forgot we had a date…that we were supposed to celebrate our anniversary. It's just that we got really involved with this one particular part of the project that we couldn't get to work right. We were so caught up in finding a solution that everything got away from me. It was nothing intentional Baby…just one of those things like when you get all consumed by a case and sometimes forget to come home. It was a mistake and I'm so sorry."

"I don't know, Gris, I mean, I know you're totally behind me and I honestly couldn't do this without your support. I am not just talking financial support here, either. If you weren't around for me to bounce ideas off of or to listen to me blow off steam and, and, to just be there for me, I'd probably be nuts by now. I've been pretty selfish, I guess. I've taken you for granted way too much. I haven't been very good at making time for you and giving you the attention you deserve. I know you are always going to be here for me and figured that we could always talk or whatever later, when things slowed down a little."

She sat up in the chair, pressing her lips to his knuckles; her kiss a benediction. Her free hand hovered shakily over his chest, needing so badly to feel the steady pulses of his heart but afraid to touch. His torso was so damaged, so destroyed that she was unwilling to risk even a fleeting brush against his bare skin for fear she that she would unknowingly inflict the smallest sliver of pain.

"Problem is, 'later' never seems to come these days, does it? There has always been one more thing to do and time has just slipped away. I have been so preoccupied with finishing my degree so we could get on with our lives that I forgot to enjoy living the life I have right now with you. And my life with you is all I have ever wanted or needed. The rest is just window dressing"

Sara's lean fingers gently brushed through his hair as her thoughts traveled back, to the day they met, the years of frustration and longing that were now behind them and the terrible accident that could have stolen him away but ultimately pulled them together. They had been inseparable from the moment she climbed into that twisted heap of metal on the side of a lonely mountain to just hold him and dry his tears; to finally love him the way she had always wanted but he had been too frightened to allow.

Now, with the changes in both of their lives, they had grown apart, or so he thought. She really could not blame him for feeling that way; she had not made much of an effort in the past several weeks to allay his fears. She honestly believed he had more faith in her and their relationship than to believe that she was moving on and leaving him behind. However, a nearly disastrous discussion the week before the shooting had glaringly illustrated the depth of his insecurities and self-doubt. Grissom, despite the confidence he had found within himself as the bond between the two of them had strengthened, was still very much the terrified five-year-old boy who truly believed that one day he would somehow disappoint her so much that she would finally give up, walk away, and leave him all alone.

**_We were blessed, we were bruised  
We were taken by the news  
And oh oh oh  
When the Promise came  
The Day the River Sang  
The Day the River Sang _**

Sunday afternoons were generally lazy affairs, days spent together tending to minor household chores, doing the weekly grocery shopping or just lazing about enjoying each other's company. Lately, however, these quiet times had been pushed aside to accommodate Sara's studies. She spent most of her time hunched over her laptop researching or compiling information for her group project while Grissom generally holed up in his study in order to give her the space and silence she needed to complete her tasks.

On this particular Sunday, Sara sat working at the kitchen table, collating data from her group Environmental Physics project, her frustration mounting as they afternoon dragged on. Everyone, it seemed, had decided to call for a lengthy chat about nothing in particular, just to say hello, ask what she was doing, how she had been, and if they could get together anytime soon. Nick, Greg, Lisa… all had phoned to just shoot the shit and Sara mentally vowed to inflict intense physical harm on the next person who interrupted. She would have powered off her cell but she was waiting for Michelle to phone in with her third of the results so she could finally finish the report. The next phase of the project was supposed to begin bright and early the next morning and they would be unable to move forward until the results of the previous steps had been analyzed.

She picked up her phone, intent on calling Michelle and demanding the rest of the data, but sensed Grissom's presence hovering just beyond the edge of her peripheral vision. Sara very purposefully placed her phone back down on the table and turned, leveling Grissom with a dark stare.

"Are you just looking or do you need something?" Her tone was brusque and clipped, the frustration she was feeling evident in her voice.

Grissom looked at the floor, nervously passing his empty coffee cup from hand to hand. "I…Do you…um, I was…I was wondering…"

"For God's sake, Grissom, quit stuttering and spit it out so I can get back to work!"

His coffee mug hit the floor with a dull thud while his face blanched and his head snapped back as if Sara had physically slapped him. He retreated slowly down the hall, his eyes never leaving hers until he slid into the relative safety of his study.

Sara released a dragon sigh and banged her head on the table. She had done it again, bitten his head off for absolutely no reason. He was the only person who did not bother her when she was trying to study and she had unloaded on him. It was no wonder that he was hesitant to approach her and had started stammering again. She really needed to talk to him, to apologize, before he turned everything around and started believing that he was somehow to blame for what had just happened.

She stood and stretched before moving to retrieve his cup and place it in the kitchen sink. She grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and idly thumbed through a stack of mail and other papers lying piled neatly on the counter. She downed at least half of her drink before gasping for air. A letter, apparently written by Grissom sat atop the pile. Sara shook with rage as the truth of the document fully penetrated her consciousness. She slammed her water on the counter and stormed down the hall.

The object or her wrath was laying on the sofa in his study, one arm thrown over his face, glasses dangling loosely between his index finger and thumb, breathing quickly and trying to get his emotions under control. She knew she had hurt him again and they needed to sort things out, but she really didn't give a damn right now. She was pissed and in no mood to salve his damaged feelings.

"What the hell is this?" she demanded, shoving the paper in his face.

Grissom recoiled slightly, sliding deeper into the cushions in an attempt to gain a little distance from Sara and the fluttering document. He slipped on his glasses and slowly focused on the letter Sara clenched in her fist.

"I'm retiring," he stated simply.

"Yeah, I can see that. I can read, you know."

Her sarcasm garnered no reaction. Grissom merely watched her grind her teeth and purse her lips before she continued.

"How dare you do something like this without even talking to me?"

He sighed heavily and opened his mouth to reply but she cut him off before he was able to speak.

"I can't believe you're doing this to me."

His brows furrowed in confusion as he waited for her to explain.

"Grissom, you told me you'd handle all the bills so I could go back to school full time and finish my doctorate without having to stress about money. You're the one who encouraged me to take a leave of absence from the lab so I could concentrate on my studies. How am I supposed to do that if you're not pulling in a paycheck?"

He regarded her for a long moment before responding. "Is that all you're concerned about?" he asked quietly, his emotions carefully controlled.

"Hell, yes…well, no. It's not _all_ I'm worried about, but it is right up there at the top of the list. You made a promise to me."

"I'm a man of my word, Sara, and I honor my commitments," he said, practically glaring at her. "You have nothing to worry about."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Grissom closed his eyes and began a quiet recitation. "The house is paid for as are both cars. Your tuition and fees are paid in full for the next three years. Since I am retiring as opposed to resigning, I will retain all of my health benefits and have taken the liberty of adding you to my insurance. Other than the monthly living expenses, everything is taken care of."

"You paid off my car?" she questioned in an incredulous tone.

He nodded, his eyes still closed. He could not bear to look at her when she was this angry with him and he was afraid that he had truly overstepped and destroyed everything.

"Why?"

"So you wouldn't have to worry about it."

Sara simply looked at him, too surprised by his revelation to immediately respond. Grissom assumed, from her prolonged silence, that the discussion had ended and started to roll over to face the back of the sofa.

"Wait, a minute, she said, spurred to action by his movement. She reached out to grab his shoulder and pull him back so that she could see his face. "We're not done here. Why didn't you discuss this with me? It affects both of us, Grissom, and I had a right to be involved in your decision."

He sighed heavily and burrowed deeper into his pillow. "Sara, I left at least six voice mails asking you to return my calls. Every time I try to talk to you here you bite my head off. What am I supposed to do?"

Grissom paused to swallow painfully around the lump forming in his throat.

"I can't make you talk to me. I can't make you check your messages. I can't make you respond to my text messages, take my calls or check your email."

He risked a glance at her before finishing his soft-spoken tirade.

"I can't make you spend time with me and I can't make you care. I can't do anything anymore."

Sara's mouth dropped open, shocked by the enormity of his words. She started to reply several times, but could not make her voice work. Her mouth opened to try again and she snapped it shut, her thoughts interrupted by the urgent ringing of her cell phone.

**_And the day that the cripple stood  
By the man who knew he would  
But no one thought he could  
And the Promise rang _**

Sara glanced towards the door of the study, her phone beckoning. She knew the caller was more than likely Michelle checking in with the data she had been waiting for all morning and she really wanted to finish the data collation. However, this conversation simply could not wait. She had noticed over the past several weeks that Grissom had begun withdrawing, slipping back into himself. She needed to find out what was in his head before he retreated so far that she would never pull him out.

"You're not going to get that?" Grissom seemed genuinely surprised that Sara was not racing from the room.

"Nope."

"It's probably the call you've been waiting for."

"I'm sure it is, but we have a conversation to finish."

He shot her a dark, skeptical look but chose to say nothing.

"Grissom, what we're doing right here right now is more important. Now, what was it you wanted to ask me?"

Grissom shook his head. That particular subject was closed as far as he was concerned.

"Talk to me, Grissom."

"It doesn't matter anymore," he said with a sad sigh of resignation.

She looked at him, concerned that he would not meet her gaze. He either kept his eyes closed or stared at the ceiling. Sara suddenly remembered how nervous he had been to approach her earlier, how timid he had been for the past several weeks now. She dreaded the answer but felt compelled to ask.

"Gris? Are you afraid of me?"

His eyes closed and he said nothing for several painful moments.

"Yes."

It was a mere whisper, a barely there answer, but Sara heard the raw anguish dripping from the lonesome syllable.

"Why, Baby?" she asked, wondering what in the world she could have done to frighten him so badly.

"You are every dream I've ever had and every nightmare as well."

She winced, trying to find a way to respond, when he started talking again.

"I…I don't…know…what I did…but…you're always angry with me. You won't talk to me; never have time for me anymore. I know practically everything Lisa, Michelle, Justin and you have done, talked about and had for dinner during the past couple of months. You have no idea what I do during my off hours because you don't care enough to ask. I…I…eat every meal alone because you're never home anymore. You…have found a wonderful new life for yourself that I…haven't…been invited into or allowed to share."

He started hesitantly and slowly gathered steam. Sara rocked back on her heels, stunned as Grissom's emotions took over and the words all but flowed from his mouth. She knew she had been preoccupied with school and her new friends, but until this moment truly had no clue as to how much it had affected him. She supposed she should have realized that he was feeling left out, left behind, but he had never said a word.

"You don't want me to touch you. I sleep on the couch because I don't trust myself not to try to hold you during the night. I can't even kiss you anymore."

Her brows furrowed in confusion over his last statement, her thoughts racing back roughly three weeks prior as she realized what he was referring to.

_He returned home after a difficult shift, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion and the lines in his face reflecting the misery of the evening. He was lost in his thoughts, preparing to head back to the bathroom to shower to scrub the grime and despair from his body when he noticed Sara curled up on the couch with her laptop open, her elegant fingers racing over the keys. His eyes lighted with delight as he watched her for a moment, the weariness receding just a bit knowing that she was home. _

_He walked over to where she was sitting, breathed in her delicate scent and dropped a sweetly chaste kiss on her cheek. She glanced up at him, annoyance sharpening her features. She pushed him away with a growl in her voice that had nothing to do with seduction and everything to do with aggravation. _

_"Not now, Grissom. I'm busy and I'm not in the mood." _

_He slowly backed away, stung by her words. "I wasn't trying to take you to bed," he mumbled, "I just wanted to say hello." _

_He retreated to his study and quietly closed the door. She looked in on him a couple of hours later to say goodbye as she was preparing to leave for campus. He was sound asleep, huddled under a blanket with his face buried deeply in his pillow. She dropped a light kiss on his temple and left, making a mental note to apologize later._

He had made no mention of the incident, but it suddenly occurred to her that he had made no attempt to kiss or even touch her since then. She was pulled back to the present when he resumed speaking.

"It's not about sex, Sara. I have been celibate for almost my entire adult life and am no stranger to tending to my own needs. I just…want to hold you sometimes."

She had no response for that and they just stared at each other. Finally, Grissom broke the silence.

"How soon do you want me out?"

"What?" Her eyes widened at his question, not certain she had heard him correctly.

"Do I have time to find a suitable apartment or do I need to book a hotel room?

"What are you talking about? I don't want you to leave. Where is this coming from?"

Defeat resonated through Grissom's voice as he haltingly began to speak, grudgingly accepting a situation he thought he could neither change nor influence. "Sara, a whole new world has opened up for you, honey. I haven't seen you this excited and happy in years. You have found a new purpose, new friends, and a new life. I can't compete with all of that. All I can do, Sara, is let you go. As much as I love you, as much as I want to keep you here with me, I have to let you go. Spread your beautiful wings and fly. Live the life you were meant to live."

"What? I have the life I want, right here with you. Are you saying…" Sara's question was strangled by a sob she refused to allow to escape. "What about us, Grissom? Are you just giving up?"

"There is no 'us', Sara. You are destined for bigger and better things. You've outgrown me, honey. You've already moved on. The only 'us' left is a foolish old man trying to hold on to a ghost."

"No, Grissom, you're not going anywhere and neither am I. God, we fought too hard to be together to give up now. I love you too much to just let you walk away from me."

He shook his head violently, denying her declaration and refusing to believe her. To believe would be to hope; to hope would be to dream. All of his dreams had died.

"Sara, the evidence…"

**_And hearts can win the race  
Just show a little faith  
Like Mary full of Grace  
And the Promise came  
The Day the River Sang  
The Day the River Sang _**

**_And you can almost touch the stars  
Like the moon in your back yard  
And we played our old guitars  
And the Promise rang _**

"Never lies. Look at me Grissom."

He reluctantly raised his eyes to look at her, terrified at what he might see in those chocolate depths. He could handle anger, or even hate, but not the indifference he had suffered lately. What he saw sent him reeling. Yes, there was shame and even a little fear, but mostly Sara's eyes shone with longing, hunger and…love…an abundance of love that made his heart swell and threaten to burst the confines of his chest.

"Grissom, listen to me very carefully. I may have forgotten to tell you or show you lately, but I love you more than I have ever loved anyone or anything. I have been neglecting you, I know that now, I just didn't realize how much I hurt you. I'm so sorry."

She rose up higher on her knees and lightly caressed his lips with her own. He felt more than heard her muttering against his mouth, each feathered declaration punctuated by a fleeting press of lips.

"It never lies, Baby."

"It…"

"Never…"

"Ever…"

"Lies."

Sara flicked her tongue along the seam of his lips, teasing, awakening his senses. A strangled whimper escaped his throat as he shivered in response to the exquisite torture. She pulled back slightly as their breathing quickened. Grissom's hands were trembling, the cobalt blue of his eyes glittering with an overpowering hunger for attention and affection. He was starving, craving so much more than a few grazing kisses but held himself in check, trying desperately to rein in the hard lust coursing through his veins as he waited for Sara to decide just how far they were going to go.

Without warning, Sara's head dropped and she kissed him again, her tongue slipping into his mouth as his lips parted helplessly beneath her sensual onslaught. Her hands tangled in his hair as she gracefully climbed on top of him, never breaking the delicious suction as she unfolded her long limbs atop his quivering frame. Their tongues dueled for dominance, sweet, slurping smacks and blissful sighs the only sounds escaping through their tangled lips. Sara wriggled, seeking more contact and Grissom's large hands rose from his sides to firmly grab her ass and press her hips tightly against his own.

Sara hummed happily, breaking the suction with a satisfying "pop". She raised her head, taking in his hooded, dazed expression and slightly puffy lips. Her hands gently stoked his smooth cheeks as his fingers snuck under her shirt to swirl lightly against the warm flesh of her back.

"Come on. Let's take this to the bedroom."

She managed to stand, her legs slightly wobbly, and reached down a hand to help him off the sofa. He immediately enfolded her in a vise-like embrace as they stumbled down the hall.

"What did you want to ask me?" she asked, gasping as he devoured her neck.

"Hmmm?"

"Earlier, when I snapped at you." He was making it difficult for her to concentrate, his hands sliding across her body as he slowly divested her of her clothing.

"Oh," he muttered, engulfing her mouth in a hot kiss. He licked and nipped his way across her cheek to whisper in her ear. "Next Monday is our two-year anniversary."

"Mmmmhmmm," she managed, sighing her pleasure.

"Anything special you want to do?"

"Nnnnno," she whimpered, arching back in an effort to get closer to the fingers tickling over her nipples. "Your, oh, your choice, baby. Any, anything you want."

His hands roamed down her stomach to toy with the snap on her pants. He drew the zipper down as he struggled to finish the conversation. "Can…we have dinner…here…alone…just the two of us? No phones, no pagers?"

"Oh yeah." Sara was not totally certain whether she was answering his question or reacting to his ministrations, but either way the response seemed to satisfy him and her pants and underpants fell to the floor.

"5:00?"

"It's a date."

He silenced her with a hard kiss, his hand sliding up her spine to cup the base of her skull as he possessively plundered the tantalizing sweetness of her mouth. He eased her down on to the bed, sinking down with her as his hands roamed freely over her body.

Sara's fingers shook as she attempted to slip the brass button of his jeans through the stiff denim opening. Grissom's gaze pierced hers as he gently brushed her hands away and growled.

"Be still, Sara, and let me love you."

**_And secrets kept within  
Like there's no way to win  
When did love become a sin  
And the Promise came  
The Day the River Sang  
The Day the River Sang_**

"Hey."

A light touch on her arm startled Sara from her thoughts, the potent memories of Grissom so thoroughly loving her slipping away to fade into the quiet breath sounds whistling from the ventilator. She glanced up to see Lisa and Michelle, her project mates, nervously looking around the room, their eyes finally settling on Grissom.

Sara brushed away an errant tear and sat up in her chair. "Hey."

Lisa cleared her throat and shoved a plastic take out bag towards Sara.

"We brought you something to eat. We didn't know how long you were going to be here."

"Thanks. You guys didn't have to do this."

"Yeah we did," said Michelle, her gaze never wavering from the still form on the bed. "That's what friends do." She paused a moment, tearing her eyes from Grissom to look at Sara. "Why didn't you tell us you were married?"

Sara shook her head as she stood and placed her meal on the table beside Grissom's bed. "I'm not."

"Wait," began Lisa, a look of confusion crossing her face. "I thought that guy on TV said you two are married."

Sara sighed, softly ruffling Grissom's hair and dropping a kiss on his forehead as she struggled to explain. "Gris and I aren't married, at least not legally. We are more like life partners, totally committed to each other. We just haven't made it official…yet." She held out her left hand. "He was going to propose last night."

"Oh, wow," said Michelle, shaking her head sadly. "Damn…just, damn."

Sara merely nodded, her hand caressing as much of Grissom's forearm as she could without disturbing the numerous IV lines. Lisa watched as Sara sought to soothe and comfort the unresponsive man.

"You really love him, don't you?"

"More than you'll ever know."

"Why don't you ever talk about him?" Michelle asked, genuinely curious. "I mean, we talk about our boyfriends all the time. We had no idea that you were even seeing anyone, let alone that you were this involved with someone."

"I don't know," Sara breathed miserably. "I guess I just never felt the need. It's nothing personal against the two of you or anything like that, but I'm not really used to discussing Grissom with anyone. We are both pretty private people."

Lisa and Michelle looked at each other, reaching a silent decision.

"We need to tell you something," began Michelle.

Sara looked at her friends, taking in their discomfort and wondering what kind of bombshell they were planning to drop in her lap. She did not think she could handle much more right now.

Lisa cleared her throat. "Justin is, um…" She glanced at Michelle who nodded, encouraging her to finish her statement. Lisa drew a big breath and the words came rushing out. "Justin is going to make a play for you."

**_Send me the doctors' names  
Who really are to blame  
If the junkies live in pain  
And the Promise rang  
The Day the River Sang  
The Day the River Sang _**

All the names on his list…all the ones responsible…they were all there, staring at him. Most were crossed off; some still remained, taunting him, haunting him. The lawyers, the physicians, the psychiatrists, the police officers, the criminalists, all of the people who are supposed to help people, who are supposed to make the world better…they did nothing. All they did was feed on the dregs of society and allow depravity to prosper by railroading decent, upright, God-fearing men like him who were not afraid to take out the fucking scum of the earth when it was needed.

He had not killed an innocent civilian. He had killed a worthless, deadbeat hophead that had taken an LVPD criminalist hostage. A criminalist was not exactly a cop but they all worked together for the greater good. A junkie was the devil, plain and simple, violating the laws of nature, God and society. He was simply another target, another enemy of the state to be eliminated, nothing more nothing less.

SWAT had been called in to provide assistance should the hostage situation deteriorate and that is precisely what he had done. He eliminated the threat, permanently. It did not matter if the slime ball had been giving up on that particular day. The enemy could wear camouflage and get all dolled up in pretty party clothes as much as he wanted, but a zebra could never change its stripes. The douche bag was always going to fill his veins with poison and always be a threat. He had to be eliminated before he could harm anyone else. Why could they not see that? It was a clean kill and the asshole did not suffer. What the hell was the problem? Why did anyone give a flying fuck if there was one less junkie prowling the streets and robbing people to get his next fix? He had provided a valuable service, cleaned up a mess a fellow officer had caused by not properly securing a scene and as a thank you for his unfailing accuracy and steady trigger finger, he had been sent away and locked up like a damn dog. He should have been given a medal, not labeled as a bad cop and thrown away like a sack of garbage. Oh, how they would pay, every last one of them.

But first, he had some business to attend to. It was time to take care of the spotter. That psycho thought they were going to meet to exchange the final payment for services rendered. Well, the spotter would be receiving something, oh yes he would, it would just not be money. That sick fuck was going to end up with a mouth full of lead. He would even leave some blatant clues so the police would know precisely who was responsible for the Stratosphere shooting. He had dallied long enough. It was time to get busy.

**_And if we could all agree  
That we should all be free  
If we could let it be  
And the Promise came  
Today the River Sang  
The Day the River Sang  
The Day the River Sang_**

"Oh, shit," Brass muttered as he read the name on the next folder in the stack he and Catherine were wading through. "This is worse than I thought. I didn't realize this guy was out." His hand trembled slightly as he reached to pick up the file.

Catherine rubbed a smear of dust from her cheek and glanced over to read the name stenciled on the manila folder. "Marlon Landis Gaenor? Never heard of him."

"You wouldn't, not around here, anyway. LVPD has erased all traces of him. Landis Gaenor was a cop, killed a civilian in cold blood."

**TO BE CONTINUED…**

_"The Day the River Sang" Words and Music by John Stewart_


	7. Chapter Six

Title: Sniper 

**Author:** Cropper

**Pairing:** GSR

**Rating:** Mature for Profanity, Graphic Imagery, And Adult Situations

**Disclaimer:** I do not own them but I wish I did. I mean no harm or infringement and will return everyone to his or her rightful owners when I finish, I promise.

**Summary:** A Sniper has returned from prison seeking vengeance on those responsible for his incarceration.

**A/N:** Thank you, **idreamedmusic**, for the beautiful banner. **Smacky30, Cincoflex, Domo Arigato** and anyone else who might have done a beta read on this or kicked ideas around with me? You ladies are all awesome and I am deeply appreciative of your efforts. **LosingInTranslation** provided invaluable assistance with the medical terminology and is responsible for the wound track diagrams. **atrueparrothead** is responsible for the fantastic video trailer on the index page and has completed another that will be posted with Chapter Six. And finally, a huge thanks to **Cheryl, Lisa, Cindy, Michelle, Muriel** and **Kaye**. They are my constants.

**CHAPTER SIX**

_**Would you send me Sister Mercy, yeah  
If she is still in town  
For it seems I've lost directions  
And I've always had them down  
And I don't know where I'm going, yeah  
And I don't know where I've been  
Could you send me Sister Mercy, yeah  
She's always been my friend**_  
**_Always been my friend_**

_He floated, drifting along in a grayish haze punctuated harshly by pain, unbearable pain. His chest was on fire, smoldering with white heat, each breath an agony so severe he prayed for it to cease. He had no discernable memory, no corporeal impression to associate with his present misery. He retained enough awareness to realize that something serious had occurred yet possessed no appreciable recollection of those events. His mind roiled in chaotic flux, vague images that made no sense, shards of memory piercing the darkness as painfully as whatever had befallen him physically._

_He remembered lights; winking, blinking flashes of blue and red and white pounding through his skull. The pulsating rhythm reminded him of nightclubs he had reluctantly visited in his younger days or the rotating whirs of bubble-topped police cruisers that colored a life spent investigating crime scenes. He concentrated, trying to grasp the images flitting past his mind's eye. Everything was jumbled and confused. Nothing seemed to fit together. He…something had bitten his neck? He tried to slap it away but then he was falling…falling as his whole body exploded in a violent crimson spatter of blinding pain. There were faces and hands and voices, hovering over him, pulling urgently at him as they told him to hang on. He tasted blood as he tried to speak. The thick metallic liquid gurgled in his throat and swallowed his words, smothering his voice as he desperately called for…someone. He fought against the terrible drowning sensation squeezing the last breath from his lungs in a vain attempt to make those nameless faces listen. He needed…_

_He could clearly discern monotonous bleeps and blips, undeniable evidence that he laid within a hospital room. Various poking and prodding, latex covered hands shifting his tormented body, added further tactile proof of his surroundings. More excruciating evidence he easily survive without. He had always likened nurses to white-crowned angels of mercy, spreading tender care. Now, the quiet squeak of their rubber soled shoes and soft swish of cotton uniforms signaled more torture, more suffering. He could not make them stop, could not make them leave. He was helpless and wanted to scream, to unleash his pain, but could not speak. He wanted to cry but no tears would flow. He needed a friend. He needed…_

_Sara. He needed Sara. She was his angel, his Sister Mercy, the only light he would ever want or need. Sara…Sara would stop the pain. She would make it go away. Sara would make the fog disappear. Sara would find him and bring him home. He knew he was lost and alone, that he was foundering in treacherous water, but Sara…Sara was his beacon in the night and would help him find his way. Sara…Sara…her name pulsed through his head like some hopeless mantra, a forlorn cry in the night. _

"I'm here, Grissom. I know you can hear me baby. You need to wake up and let me know that everything is going to be okay. Come on, Gris, I know you can do it. Open those beautiful blue eyes for me."

_He felt her hands, her beautiful loving hands, gently caressing his arm, her hand, brushing delicately through his hair, stroking his cheek. The press of her lips on his forehead and knuckles, the slight weight of her head as she nestled into his thigh made him want to weep with pleasure and relief. He longed to run his fingers through her hair, to touch her face, to assure himself that she was real and that she was there, but he could not. He could not make his arms move and he could not voice his desires. _

"Hey, baby. I know you don't have much strength right now but you have to keep fighting. I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here when you're ready to come back."

Sara pressed something cool and pebbled into his hand and closed his fingers tightly, trapping the object within his grasp. "Do you feel that, Grissom? Do you know what it is? I asked Greg to bring me your Mom's rosary from your desk drawer. I thought it might help you right now, give you something to focus on."

She cautiously slid her hand up his arm and lightly traced the bandages on his chest. She bit her lip, applying the slightest amount of pressure over his heart, hoping he could feel her warmth and praying she was not hurting him.

"Concentrate on my hand, the feel of my palm against your heart. I've got you, baby and I am not going to let you go. This is where you are supposed to be Grissom, where you have always belonged, right here with me."

_He tried to open his eyes. He wanted so badly to see her face, but he was so tired. He wanted to push through the fog for her but did not have the strength. He was focusing all of his energy on just staying with her and not leaving. Sara would understand, she would wait. She knew that when he was able, he would return to her. She would remain by his side and show him the way._

**_She would bring me to the river, yeah_**  
_**Where I could lay my head**_  
**_And I would close my eyes_**  
_**And remember what she said  
She said nothing is forever, yeah  
So grab it while you can  
Find the dreams along the river  
As they move across the land**_  
**_Move across the land_**

_Sara. She was everything, his entire world. He had not really known life could be so rich, so vibrant until she had wormed her way into his heart. Sara had shown him a future he had never considered possible, one full of love instead of the bleak solitude he had always envisioned for himself. Their life together was not always perfect; they had their arguments and growing pains just like any other couple, but it was real and the one thing he could count on when nothing else made sense._

_He was uneasy, however, for lately the tide had changed. No longer was Sara his rock, his anchor. Something significant had happened, and his troubled, tired mind skittered anxiously from the truth. More than anything, he needed to know that Sara was with him, waiting for him, sharing her strength and determination when he had so very little of his own. And yet, there was an aching loneliness in his soul that would not be assuaged. He could not escape the crushing sensation that Sara, his Sara, had somehow slipped away. _

Sara sighed, softly ruffling Grissom's hair and dropping a kiss on his forehead as she struggled to explain. "Gris and I aren't married, at least not legally. We are more like life partners, totally committed to each other. We just haven't made it official…yet." She held out her left hand. "He was going to propose last night."

_His pain intensified, spreading from the spot her lips had so sweetly touched to settle against his damaged heart as the memories came flooding back. Sara was right, he had planned to propose, to make everything official but something had stopped him. Why had he not asked her? He had regained enough confidence in their relationship to overcome his paralytic fear of rejection and finally take this last step. He knew that she would say yes, that Sara would agree to marry him. What had stopped him? Why had he not followed through? Something had happened, something, something…_

_All he could summon were fragments, disjointed snapshots of checking his watch, blowing out tapers, wiping away a tear, slipping the ring in his pocket. His watch, it was important. What was it? Time… relentlessly ticking, making him late. Late…late…late…too late…too late…too late. He had been at home. How could he be late if he was waiting? That made no sense. _

_Sara…Sara was late? Sara hadn't come home. That's why he snuffed the candles and put the ring in his pocket. He had been crying as well. He clearly remembered wiping a tear from his cheek. Had something happened to Sara? Had she been injured as well? No, wait, Sara was there with him, wasn't she? Was she really there or had he just imagined it all?_

_Sara? Sara? SARA?** SARA?**  
_

"Sara?"

Greg's trembling voice roused her from a fitful doze. She had been dreaming, praying that this was all just another nightmare and she would wake to find Grissom sliding into bed after shift.

"What? What's wrong?" She muttered, concern seeping into her voice as she lifted her head from its spot on her lover's thigh to regard Greg through swollen and bloodshot eyes.

Greg pointed to the monitors.

"I don't know. Something is going on and it doesn't look good."

Sara focused on the monitors and saw that both Grissom's heart rate and brain waves were hurtling into overdrive. He was still motionless, his face utterly impassive, but he was clearly suffering an intense physiological reaction to some sort of unseen trauma.

"Hit the call button and get someone in here, Greg," she shouted as she hovered over the bed. She leaned over him, pushing back her own terror as she sought to calm him. Tears fell unheeded as she stroked his face, the slight stubble of his cheeks scratching lightly against her palms as she sought to ground him. Her lips moved against his cool skin, gently soothing him with tender caresses and intimate words only he could hear.

"Grissom? It's all right. Calm down, baby. Everything's fine. I'm here, Gris, I'm right here. Shhhh, love, it's okay. I'm here. I love you, baby. I'm not going anywhere."

_He heard her whispers, felt her warm touch upon his skin. A splash dotted his forehead and he knew she was real, that she was with him. His heart began to slow as he listened to her whispered litany of love. Whatever had happened to keep her from him that night was in the past. He did not care. All that mattered was that she was with him now and that she still loved him. He could relax, he could rest. Sara loved him. Sara loved him._

_**In the summer in the Badlands, yeah,  
Where I once ran wild  
She would take me to the river  
As a mother takes a child  
For the dreams along the river, yeah  
Are the best, I understand  
Sister Mercy and the river, yeah**_  
**_They know how to treat a man  
_****_How to treat a man_**

"Hey, Sara."

Sara and Greg both turned sharply, startled by the voice shattering the newly restored calm. Both were still a bit shaky from Grissom's "episode", a word the doctors had used for what happened, and not particularly happy when the unwelcome visitor strode confidently into the room.

"Oh, hey Justin," Sara responded, her lack of enthusiasm apparent in her voice. "What are you doing here?"

"I just came by to check on you, see how you're holding up," he said in a tone dripping with false sincerity.

He glanced at Greg, hoping the young man would take the hint and go find a cup of coffee or something. He wanted to talk to Sara alone. Greg, however, merely settled himself deeper in his chair. He had appointed himself as Sara's guardian and had made a silent promise to Grissom that he would look out for her until Grissom was ready to come back.

Sara glanced at him before returning her attention to Grissom. "I'm fine. You really didn't need to come. I mean, it's nice that you did but you don't need to stay. Gris and I are going to be just fine."

"Do you need anything?" he persisted. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No, thanks, we're good."

Justin took a moment to regard the silent, motionless man commanding all of Sara's time and attention. "You sure? He doesn't look good to me. Any change?"

"Some, but not much. Nobody but me thought he'd make it this far but he's still fighting. He'll come back to me when he's ready." Sara shot him a fierce look, daring him to disagree.

"Do you really believe that?"

"Yeah, Justin, I do. I'm counting on it. He and I have been through way too much together to give up now. He's not going to leave me."

Justin cleared his throat. He thought Sara was being exceptionally unrealistic but understood that now was not the time to force her to see the hopelessness of the situation. He needed to be supportive and understanding.

"Well, I hope you're right and everything works the way you want. Look, are you sure you don't want to get out of here for a few hours and blow off some steam? Grab some dinner and maybe catch a movie?"

"Wait, are you asking me out? In front of Grissom?" Sara was losing patience with Justin. Her temper was starting to flare and she just wanted him to leave. She started to turn and ask for Greg's help when Justin started speaking again.

"No, no. Nothing like that." He held his hands up in a placating gesture and began to quickly ease off. He was going to have to tread carefully. He could not afford to upset her at this point, not if he planned on being the one to provide comfort when the old geezer finally croaked. "I thought you might want to get out of here for awhile and clear your head, that's all. No strings."

Sara's eyes narrowed and she exchanged a glance with Greg as she attempted to fathom Justin's sincerity. The warning from Lisa was still vibrating through her mind, and she could tell from Greg's demeanor that he did not trust Justin one bit. She really did not need this bullshit right now and was too tired to try to figure out Justin's motives. Grissom needed her and she was channeling all of her strength to him.

"I'm fine, Justin, really. I'm not leaving him alone. I've done way too much of that lately."

"You won't be leaving him alone. Your friend," Justin waved his hand in Greg's general direction, "can sit with him for a couple of hours while we go out. Honestly, Sara, it's not like he's going to notice that you're gone."

Sara's head shot up and she nailed him with a cold stare. Justin realized that he had just made a huge mistake and needed to regroup. She clearly felt some sort of obligation to sit and hold the old man's hand until the physicians convinced her that it was time to pull the plug and let him die. Patience, he reminded himself. He needed to be patient. Not only would she be seeking him out for comfort when her sugar daddy kicked, but she would also be indebted to him. He had been busy putting a plan in motion to ensure that he would soon have complete control over her academic career. She would have no choice but to fall in to his arms.

"Oh by the way," he continued, in a blandly conversational tone, "as far as your project and all of that is concerned? Lisa and Michelle are going to go ahead and finish up. I know that you have done the majority of the work thus far, so I have personally petitioned the graduate board to make sure that you will still get full credit for everything and not lose the semester. As far as exams are concerned, I can get everything postponed due to a family emergency. You have nothing to worry about."

Sara sighed tiredly. "You really didn't have to do that. Grissom is much more important than my doctorate. I can repeat the semester if I have to. It's not a big deal."

Justin smiled, a smug grin stretching his generous lips into a predatory leer. Oh yes, she was falling quite neatly into his well-laid trap.

"That's where you're wrong because it is a big deal. I'm not going to let this little mishap wipe all of your hard work off the books. Look, you need someone to protect and look after you right now and I am, quite frankly, the man to do it. I have everything under control."

Sara's eyes flashed with anger as she slowly advanced on Justin. "Little mishap?" she snarled. "You think this was a _little mishap_? The man I love is laying here fighting for his life and you have the nerve to call this a little mishap?"

Her last words were practically hurled into his face and Justin shrank backwards in an attempt to escape her wrath. Greg allowed a satisfied smile to cross his lips before standing and hurrying towards the two. He would love nothing more than to sit back and watch Sara ream this smarmy bastard, but decided that both she and Grissom had dealt with enough stress for one day.

"Hey, Justin? Sara and Grissom need a little alone time. You and I need to take off for awhile and let them have their space."

Justin regarded Greg with open disdain, ready to protest and slap this insolent boy down a peg or two. He was already annoyed that the whelp had refused to leave Sara's side and now had to audacity to order him to leave. He opened his mouth, but the young man shook his head.

"Now, Justin. It's time to go."

Greg did not give Justin a chance to argue as he all but shoved him through the door. Sara shot Greg a grateful smile and watched him force Justin into the hall before returning her undivided attention to Grissom. She would deal with Justin later. Gris needed her now.

**_And she knows it's not forever_**  
_**And I'll soon be on my feet  
And I will take her dancing, yeah  
In the liquid desert heat  
And I'll forget tomorrow  
And most of yesterday  
Sister Mercy and the river  
They know how to get their way  
Sister Mercy and the river  
They always get their way**_  
**_Always get their way_**

"Hey, Grissom. You in there? I know you heard all of that. Can you believe the nerve of that stupid asshat? What the hell? I'm going to have to deal with him soon. He's going to try to screw me academically, I know that, but I could really care less right now. It's just not that important."

Sara sighed miserably, tears of frustration beginning to flow. God, she did not know how much longer she could do this before she cracked. Her fears and anxieties were beginning to consume her. She needed something, a sniffle, a twitch, anything, to let her know that he was with her.

"You can't hide forever, you know," a delicate sniffle taking the bite out of her reproachful tone. "Sooner or later you are going to have to wake up and talk to me. I have so many things I need to tell you. We have a lot of catching up to do, baby."

_They did have many things to discuss, so many things he wanted to tell her and share with her. But he was tired, so tired. All he could do was listen to the comforting lilt of her voice._

"You know that this is just temporary, right? This crazy schedule with you working nights and me going to school? Things will settle down soon, you'll see, and we will have all of the time that we need. You are going to retire, I will have my doctorate and then we will be free to have whatever life we want."

_She was right. He could see now that they had just hit some rough currents but that everything would work itself out. She would soon finish her doctorate and he would recover from whatever it was that had happened to him. She was still his constant, despite the changes. She had no intention of flowing from his life and leaving him stranded on the shore. She was willing to fight for him, for them. _

"I want that life, Grissom, that future you were picturing when you decided to retire and bought me this ring. But we can't start working on any of that until you decide to wake up."

She watched his face carefully, trying to see if her words were having any impact. A sob escaped as she struggled to continue.

"Damn it, Gris. I'm not giving up here, so you can't either. Everyone is expecting you to just fade away but I know you can fight through this. You are a strong man, Grissom, and you have too much to live for to let some bastard steal that from you, from us."

She could not continue as the stress and misery finally overtook her. She dropped her head heavily on his arm as she allowed the tears to flow.

_He knew he needed to do something, to show her that he was with her, that she was not alone. He wanted so badly to wake up and comfort her but he was just so tired and filled with pain. Maybe in a little while, after he rested some more. Maybe then he would have the strength. _

_Sara, his beacon, was leading him home. He needed to return the gift of her faith. He had to give her something to hold on to, to reassure her that he was fighting for her._

Sara's head slowly rose in shock as she felt a faint twitch in the arm she had been resting on. She was sure that she was just imagining it, that she had been hoping so hard for a miracle that she had allowed her mind to run wild. She watched, breathless, as his fingers moved again. Her eyes widened and she slowly lifted her gaze to his face, her breath leaving her chest in a strangled gasp. New tears washed down her face as she finally saw just a glimmer of watery blue peeking from beneath his eyelids. Sara grasped his hand tightly and was rewarded with one more tiny movement before his eyes closed and he drifted away once again.

_**Would you bring me Sister Mercy  
If she is still in town  
For it seems I lost directions, yeah  
And I always had them down  
And I don't know where I'm going, yeah  
And I don't know where I've been  
Could you send me Sister Mercy, yeah  
She's always been my friend**_  
**_Could you send me Sister Mercy, yeah  
She's always been my friend_**

**_"Siter Mercy" Words and Music by John Stewart_**

**TO BE CONTINUED..._  
_**


	8. Chapter Seven

**Title: **Sniper

**Author:** Cropper

**Pairing:** GSR

**Rating:** Mature for Profanity, Graphic Imagery, And Adult Situations

**Disclaimer:** I do not own them but I wish I did. I mean no harm or infringement and will return everyone to his or her rightful owners when I finish, I promise.

**Summary:** A Sniper has returned from prison seeking vengeance on those responsible for his incarceration.

**A/N:** Thank you, **idreamedmusic**, for the beautiful banner. **Smacky30, Cincoflex, Domo Arigato** and anyone else who might have done a beta read on this or kicked ideas around with me? You ladies are all awesome and I am deeply appreciative of your efforts. **LosingInTranslation** provided invaluable assistance with the medical terminology and is responsible for the wound track diagrams. **atrueparrothead** is responsible for the fantastic video trailer on the index page and has completed another that will be posted with Chapter Six. And finally, a huge thanks to **Cheryl, Lisa, Cindy, Michelle, Muriel, Doris** and **Kaye**. They are my constants.

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

_**There ain't no wild horses out on Wild Horse Road  
There ain't no wild horses there, I know  
Somewhere they're trucking mustangs on a lonesome desert road  
But there ain't no wild horses out on Wild Horse Road (A)  
**_

"A bad cop? We're looking for a bad cop who gunned down an innocent civilian?" questioned Catherine in disbelief, wiping her hands along her thighs to rid them of dust.

"Well, Gaenor wasn't really a bad cop and the civilian wasn't exactly innocent, but that's beside the point." Brass paused, thumbing through the worn case file before tossing it on the table in front of Catherine. "It's a long story," he breathed quietly, "a giant cluster fuck that turned into a hostage situation."

"I'm all ears, Jim. Start talking," Catherine demanded as she pulled up a chair and sat down to listen. She fidgeted and fussed until she was comfortable, drawing an amused grin from Brass.

"Want some cookies and milk? How about a teddy bear and a blanket?"

Catherine returned his smile with a shaky one of her own and then motioned with her hand for him to start talking.

"You can read the details for yourself in the file," he began. "I haven't looked at it in years but I'm assuming nothing was whitewashed. Basically, a young cop failed to clear a crack house. The perp was hiding under an old staircase and ended up taking a criminalist hostage."

"Grissom."

"Grissom." He paused again, gathering his thoughts. "Things got pretty ugly. A hostage negotiator and SWAT were called in to try to diffuse the situation. We could see the perp through the window trying to shove a .357 Magnum through Gil's temple. The guy was flying on God knows what and there was no reasoning with him."

"You were the negotiator." There was something about the expression on Brass' face; Catherine knew that no matter how much time had passed Brass still felt guilty about something associated with this particular case.

Brass nodded, a self-deprecating grimace momentarily flashing across his care-worn face. "And, as we've seen, I'm not very good at it. But, I had the rank and I was available so I got elected."

"So, what happened? Obviously Gil got out of there."

Brass nodded again but before he could respond, Catherine fired off another question.

"Wait, back up just a minute. Was he working solo on this? What happened to the other CSI that should've been with him? There's no way one CSI can process an entire crack house solo. You'd need two at the _very_ least."

"Hang on a sec," Brass smirked, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "I'm getting to that. Grissom distracted the perp long enough for his partner…I can't remember his name right now…to slip out the back door. If you want to know who it was, the name should be in the file."

"I'll look it up later." Catherine said, drumming her fingernails lightly on the tattered folder. She was insanely curious and longed for the identity of the cowardly dog that had left Grissom alone with a spaced out druggie, but that information would have to wait. She desperately wanted Jim to continue his narrative. Grissom had never spoken of this particular incident and she craved every possible detail. "Continue. You were just getting to the good part…where Grissom managed to get himself out of this mess."

"Yeah, he did, no thanks to me. It's kind of ironic, really. Grissom's a man of few words and even fewer emotions…well, emotions that he's willing to show anyone. He somehow managed to talk the guy down and walked out holding the asshole's weapon. That's when all hell broke loose. The perp…"

Brass was interrupted by the buzz of his pager. He glanced at the message, pursed his lips and beckoned his companion forward with a crooked finger.

"Grab the file and get your kit, Catherine. We have a 419, definitely a homicide. I'll finish tucking you in and telling your bedtime story later."

_**Looking at the long line behind the stallions  
All the faithful mares  
Just like women on the road  
Everywhere  
Following the big time  
They caught a dead line  
Where did they all go  
There ain't no wild horses out on Wild Horse Road (A)  
**_

Sara maintained her vigil in Grissom's room, leaving only when Greg or Nick forced her to take a break and catch a breath of fresh air or head home for an hour or so to shower and change clothes. Most of her time was spent talking to her lover, watching the news for updates on the manhunt for the Sniper and thinking. She had plenty of free time to devote to reflection and the blessed realization of just how incredibly fortunate both she and Grissom truly were.

Sara considered the Sniper's other victims and the loved ones they left behind. The families had been given no chance to say goodbye…their husbands or wives, friends or partners, sons or daughters, had been killed instantly with one clean shot to the head. All they had was a long walk behind a flag-draped casket to a lonely resting place in a quiet cemetery. She could vividly imagine the endless lines of black-clothed mourners marching in anguished procession across lawns of unnatural lushness and vibrant bloom, their shocked and tearful expressions seared into her mind. The media coverage with regard to the Sniper had been intense. She could scarcely turn on the television without stumbling upon a funeral of another of his helpless victims and hearing the lonesome volley of gleaming rifles raised in final salute, their sharp reports echoing off the granite tombstones before floating away with the breeze…ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

She knew it was morbid, and probably seven different kinds of wrong, but Sara was secretly thankful for the Sniper's sadistic streak. For whatever reason, the nameless, faceless shooter wanted Grissom to suffer horribly and she would be forever grateful for that minor miracle. The Sniper might be meticulous in his planning and execution but he had made some major miscalculations where Gil Grissom was concerned. He did not know how incredibly stubborn both she and Grissom could be and had not counted on Grissom's strength and will to survive. Yes, Grissom was critically injured and might never fully recover, but he was fighting. He was alive. Despite the bleak prognosis he had originally been given by the emergency surgical team, he was beating the odds; he was winning.

Sara looked at him, marveling at the difference a scant twenty-four hours had made. The medical staff had successfully weaned him from the ventilator and had replaced his endotracheal tube with less invasive nasal tubes. Even though he was still receiving oxygen, his reinflated right lung was performing perfectly. The left, however, while functional, was operating at about forty percent diminished capacity. He could now speak if he chose but seemed content to remain silent. Gris was not much of a talker anyway but Sara knew he was with her by the occasional flicker of his fingers against her palm. She stroked her hand lovingly along his stubbled cheek, her words as soft as her gentle caress.

"You need a shave, baby, unless you are going to grow the beard back. What do you think? I personally thought you looked hot as hell with the scruff, but that's just me."

Grissom's eyes flitted open, his gaze wavering a bit before finally managing to focus on Sara's grinning face.

"There you are. I knew you were with me." Her smile grew brighter as she smoothed a hand along his jaw. "How about it? You want a shave?"

He regarded her for a long moment through barely opened eyes before giving a small shake of his head. If Sara liked the beard, he was more than willing to grow it back.

"You just want to drive all the nurses crazy, don't you," she teased with a smirk. "You know, that one nurse, Cindy, might just forget that you're a patient and try to have her wicked way with you. I've seen her look at you and I don't think her thoughts are entirely professional."

Grissom managed a small smile, a slight curving of his lips, before his eyes slipped shut once again and his face smoothed back into a peaceful, placid mask. A gentle squeeze against her palm let her know that he was still awake.

Sara leaned down to press a soft kiss on his lips and murmured, "I love you, Grissom."

His thumb jerked in response, settling upon the engagement ring she wore. He rubbed the brilliant stone a couple of times, his voice escaping in a hoarse whisper.

"Marry me."

_**There ain't no wild horses out on Wild Horse Road  
There ain't no wild horses there, I know  
Somewhere they're trucking mustangs on a lonesome desert road  
But there ain't no wild horses out on Wild Horse Road (A)  
**_

Brass and Catherine ducked under the yellow tape stretching across the door leading to a dilapidated apartment and were immediately assailed by the coppery stench of drying blood. The victim was lying on the floor in the middle of the room, his body twisted at an almost impossible angle. His hands appeared to be bound behind his back and he had apparently been kneeling when shot, the force of the blast bending him over backwards.

"Wow, what a mess," Catherine exclaimed as she paused just inside the door.

Mess was a vast understatement and did not even come close to describing the horror and violence that had occurred within the dingy apartment. Hair, blood, gray matter and bone fragments formed a gruesome three-dimensional collage on the wall directly behind the victim's head. Catherine approached the victim gingerly, trying to avoid the additional spatter along the floor, and visibly shuddered as she got her first good look at the victim's face, or what was left of it. The top of the man's head had been completely blown off, as if someone had slid a shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. This was an execution, plain and simple.

Whoever had murdered this man was making certain that he would never speak again. This had not been an attempt to obscure the identity of the victim by blasting away his teeth and facial features. The vic's tattered nylon wallet was sitting in plain sight on top of the television and his fingers were left intact allowing for a possible ten-card ID. No, this killing was extremely personal. The victim knew some terrible secret about the shooter and had paid the ultimate price for that knowledge.

Brass' attention was centered on a semi-automatic rifle casually resting atop a scarred coffee table. He ran a gloved finger along the barrel before gently lifting it to peer at the newsprint beneath. His brows knitted in concentration and he blew out a disbelieving breath as he read through a newspaper story detailing the drive-by shooting at the Stratosphere.

"Nah, it couldn't be this simple," he muttered softly. "Gaenor is covering his tracks and playing with us at the same time."

"What do you mean?"

Brass jumped at the sound of Catherine's voice. He had been so immersed in his thoughts that he had not noticed her moving closer to read over his right shoulder. He nodded towards the corpse on the floor.

"Gil said that the drive-by was a setup to lure someone out into the open. I've got a bill that says this piece of hamburger here is the shooter and another bill that says he's in the system and did some time with Gaenor."

He strode over to the television, grabbed the wallet and peered inside. "Leonard Wayne Simons." Brass studied the photo on the driver's license and wrinkled his nose in distaste before holding it up for Catherine to see. "I think our friend Gaenor may have actually improved this guy's looks."

Catherine shot Brass a disapproving frown before returning to the area surrounding the corpse. Something shiny caught her eye and she dropped gracefully to one knee to lift the object. "I've seen this before," she commented in a tight voice before handing the piece to Brass.

"Me, too. Gaenor had them made and placed one in the casket of every one of his targets after a successful kill. Something he learned in the military. Kind of a tradition."

"Tradition?"

"Yeah, wanting to let whoever found the corpse know exactly who was responsible for the kill." He thought for a moment. "Where did you see one of these? You were never connected with anything having to do with Gaenor."

"It was among Gil's personal effects. I gave it to Sara along with everything else."

"We need to get to the hospital. Call someone from days to take over here, or better yet, call the Feds. Tell them their Sniper struck again and that they need to get someone here to process the scene. I'll leave a couple of uniforms out front until they get here to keep the looky loos and media at bay."

He took one last glance around the blood-smeared apartment and slipped the gleaming coin in his pocket. "You ready?

"Yup. Let's go"

_**Running down a mustang oh, what'll it take  
A pick up and a gun?  
Hey young moonlight gunner  
Where's the sun?  
Don't it make you feel  
Like kicking in a whitewall  
Now you finally know  
There ain't no wild horses out on Wild Horse Road (A)  
**_

The Sniper drove aimlessly through the streets of Las Vegas, finally turning down a garbage-littered alley and tossed his blood-stained coveralls out of the car window, his thoughts were fixated on his latest kill and initial reconnaissance for the next. Killing the Spotter had been so very easy, kind of like sitting out in a field and hitting a wide-eyed deer with a spotlight. There was no skill involved, no planning. He had gambled on the worthless sack of shit being so preoccupied by the promise of payment that he would not anticipate the Sniper's true intent. He had felt no emotion while binding the victim's hands behind his back and sliding both barrels of the shotgun into his mouth. The fear, the begging, the pungent scent of urine as the Spotter lost control of his bladder in his final moments of absolute terror meant nothing. He cared no more for the life of the Spotter than he would a cockroach ground beneath the heel of his heavy, lug-sole boots. Pulling the triggers was largely anticlimactic, a means to an end – nothing more, nothing less. Another task had been successfully completed and one more name obliterated from the master list.

He thoughtfully fingered the cell phone he had liberated from the Spotter before tossing it carelessly onto the passenger seat. That small instrument was the only method by which the police would be able to connect him to the psycho he had just eliminated. He knew that the LVPD would eventually discover that the Spotter owned a phone and would start tracing the calls. However, by the time those hapless idiots were able to find their own dicks he would be long gone, safely hidden in some anonymous hacienda in Mexico. There were only two more names on his list. Soon, soon, his mission would be complete and he could finally rest.

He had plans for the future; professional assassins were always in demand and he was certain that he would be able to command top dollar for his services. Someone, somewhere, always needed somebody dead and would be willing to pay a lot of money for a clean, untraceable hit. Once settled down south, he would find a way to advertise his services and make himself and his unique talents available to the top bidder. However, he had two more targets to eliminate before he could allow himself to think that far ahead. Captain James Brass and William Davis were waiting, living out their final moments in blissful ignorance of their date with destiny. Their days were numbered, their time running out. Yes, his mission was drawing to an end and his sense of justice was nearly appeased. He would sleep soon and awaken as a new man, a man who had wiped the slate of his past clean and had a whole new life awaiting him.

_**There ain't no wild horses out on Wild Horse Road  
There ain't no wild horses there, I know  
Somewhere they're trucking mustangs on a lonesome desert road  
But there ain't no wild horses out on Wild Horse Road (A)  
**_

Sara's jaw dropped. After everything that had happened, he still wanted to marry her? Surely it was the medication talking or else he had a hell of a lot more faith in her and their relationship than she did right now. She tried to respond but the lump forming in her throat effectively strangled any words she tried to say.

"Love you."

Her eyes welled with tears. It was the first time he had ever given voice to those two simple words. Usually, he mumbled a "too" after she declared her love, but he had never said "love you" before.

"You're serious." It was more of a statement than a question. She knew Grissom would not dare voice those two little words, either of those two-word phrases, if he were not absolutely certain.

He gave a small tight nod as she quietly continued.

"I haven't been very good to you lately, you know. I pretty much screwed up your whole formal proposal thing. You're not just doing this to make me feel better, are you?"

He shook his head violently, one quick jerk to the left and then back to the right. "Love you," he growled forcefully. He tried to say more, but the effort to speak was taking a tremendous toll on his waning strength. He settled for a tight squeeze of her hand, hoping the gesture would convey his sincerity, his need, his love.

Sara cleared her throat and was about to respond to Grissom's proposal when the hospital room became very, very crowded. One by one, Brass and the criminalists shuffled in, some hurriedly eating take out, others leisurely sipping steaming cups of potent hospital coffee. Each carried a folder or sheaf of paper and began pulling up chairs and getting situated for what promised to be an extended work session. Despite the fact that she really did not want the rest of the team privy to either the marriage proposal or her answer, Grissom deserved an answer.

She released her grip on his hand and moved from her chair to gingerly perch on the bed near his head. Sara ran her hand through his tousled hair and gently snuggled his head into her thigh. She heard him sigh in contentment as she leaned down and quickly whispered, "Yes. Anytime, anywhere. I mean that."

Catherine watched the two of them over the rim of her styrofoam coffee cup, taking in the tender scene before her with a jaded eye. "You have some nerve wearing that," she began in a glacial tone, nodding to the ring adorning Sara's finger. "After everything you've done how do you know he still wants you to have it? It would serve you right if he kicked your sorry ass out on the street and told you to go to hell."

Grissom's breathing grew agitated in response to Catherine's acerbic comments. His relationship with Sara was none of her business and, despite the fact that he knew she was just looking out for him; Catherine had no right to speak to Sara in such a manner. Sara quickly realized that the older woman was upsetting him and leaned over to murmur softly in his ear, stroking his jaw in a soothing manner.

"It's okay, Baby. She's pissed at me because I stood you up the other night. She thinks I'm just using you for mind-blowing sex."

"Slut."

Sara burst out laughing, shocked and surprised at Grissom's gravelly whisper. She could feel the heat radiating from her face and saw the corner of his mouth twitch in the equivalent of a smirk.

Catherine glared at Sara; she had heard the brunette's soft-spoken words and stepped nearer the bed to regard Grissom more closely.

"Gil? Are you awake?"

He cracked his eyes open just enough to let her know that he was indeed with them and had heard everything she said. Catherine had the good grace to blush as Grissom's eyes closed and he nestled back into Sara's thigh.

Brass cleared his throat to draw attention away from Catherine's predicament and refocus everyone to the task at hand. "Moving right along," he said, moving towards the couple on the hospital bed to include Grissom in the conversation. "Warrick, care to tell us what the Feds are doing besides chasing their own tails?"

"Hell, they couldn't find their own backsides with a flashlight and Mapquest," Warrick replied disdainfully. "I was able to get a full list of all of the victims to save us some time but that's about it."

"Okay," said Brass. "Let's go over what we do know and see if we can figure out how to catch this bastard."

Nick began the recitation of facts. "According to Bobby, the Sniper…"

"Hang on, Nicky," interrupted Brass. "Let's call this guy by his name and quit giving him the mystique of being known as 'The Sniper', okay? He's been given too many superpowers by the press as it is."

"We know his name?" asked Greg.

"Yeah," replied Catherine. "He's Marlon Landis Gaenor, a blast from Grissom's and Brass' past. Jim will fill you all in later."

"Okaaay," said Nick, "Gaenor it is. Anyway, Bobby says that he is using a Remington 700 bolt-action rifle. Now, Remington makes a version of that rifle known as the M24 for the Army and the 700 P for law enforcement. Bobby is not sure exactly which model the guy is using but he did say that the rifle has a twenty-six inch barrel with five lands and grooves and one right-hand twist every 11.2 inches. If we can get our hands on Gaenor's rifle he is sure that he can match one of the slugs from Grissom back to the rifle."

Warrick checked to see if Nick was finished before launching into his own narrative. "Okay. Here is the list of all known victims to this point." He looked at Catherine. "If you have the original case file handy you might want to check off the names to see if we can figure out who's left on the hit list."

Catherine nodded in agreement and handed the case file to Greg. She blew lightly on her coffee as he scrambled to find a pen.

Warrick withdrew a crumpled scrap of paper from his pocket and began reading. Greg thumbed through the folder, searching for each name. He nodded each time he found a match and Warrick moved on to the next victim. By the time they were finished, they had compiled an impressive list of public servants that included the former commander of the LVPD SWAT team, five SWAT commandos, the prosecuting attorney, the defense attorney, a ballistics expert, an acoustics expert, the judge, a retired Army colonel who washed Gaenor out of sniper school and eventually the military, and Grissom.

Greg looked up. "There are only two names left in here. Brass and someone named William Davis."

"William Davis?" Nick asked.

Brass snapped his fingers. "That's his name," he said to Catherine. "Told you it would be in the file."

"Who's William Davis?" Nick asked again, his voice growing louder.

"William Davis is the yellow bastard who left Grissom all alone with that damn hop head," spat Brass.

Greg looked at Sara questioningly and she just shook her head. Grissom had been drifiting in and out during the roll call of the dead and she did not want to disturb him. She could see by the increased activity reflected on the monitors that all of this was wearing him down and she needed to get everyone out of the room so that he could rest. He still had very little strength and even the smallest amount of stress could prove fatal.

"Look," said Brass. "You all can read the file for yourselves later. William Davis is not important right now. We need to figure out how to find Gaenor."

"Wait," said Greg, holding up both hands. "If you were the negotiator and talked the perp down, why did he nail Grissom before you?"

"Short answer? I negotiated nothing. Grissom talked his own way out of it. I simply gave the all clear, told SWAT to stand down and testified that Gaenor gave an affirmative response. Grissom's testimony was a lot more damaging than mine, but I was the nail in the coffin so to speak."

The conversation continued, Brass and the criminalists presenting and rejecting several different scenarios for ensnaring the Sniper. Grissom's breathing grew labored as the pain returned full force, blackening the edges of his consciousness and pulling him back into the realm of nothingness. He heard snippets of what the others were saying but could not focus on the details. All he wanted to do was escape, to let the blessed blackness engulf him into its welcoming arms.

"Sara?" The hoarse whisper was desperate, full of pain and fear.

Sara stroked his hair and ran her hand down his arm to twine their fingers together.

"Greg," she said, "I need you to go to the house and grab Grissom's laptop and a manila envelope from the top drawer of his desk in the study. Nick? Will you go get the chaplain? Grissom's fading fast. He's not going to last much longer."

All heads turned as the door opened and Justin sauntered into the room as if he owned the place. He took one look at the somber faces of the CSI team before directing his gaze towards Sara. He had heard her tell someone named Nick to go fetch the Chaplain and saw the tears running down her flushed cheeks.

"What happened?" he demanded, his voice shattering the silence that had fallen over the room. "Did the old geezer finally croak?"

_**Shoot all the brave horses  
And how will we ride?  
Shoot all the brave horses  
And how will we ride?  
Shoot all the brave horses  
And how will we ride?  
And ford the cold waters  
How will we ride? (B)**_

**TBC **

_**(A) "Wild Horse Road" **_**Words and Music by John Stewart Available on the Album**_** Lonesome Picker Rides Again **_**at iTunes**_**  
(B) "All the Brave Horses" **_**Words and Music by John Stewart Available on the Album**_** Lonesome Picker Rides Again **at iTunes_


	9. Chapter Eight

Title: Sniper 

**Author:** Cropper

**Pairing:** GSR

**Rating:** Mature for Profanity, Graphic Imagery, and Adult Situations

**Disclaimer:** I do not own them but I wish I did. I mean no harm or infringement and will return everyone to his or her rightful owners when I finish, I promise.

**Summary:** A Sniper has returned from prison seeking vengeance on those responsible for his incarceration.

**A/N: **I have grave misgivings about posting a new chapter right now, in light of Monday's tragedy in Blacksburg. If this were not an established story, I would probably delay for awhile. But, since the circumstances on this story differ greatly from what happened on the campus of Virginia Tech, I decided to go ahead and toss this up.

I apologize for the considerable delay in posting this chapter. Once again my real life interfered...this time with an unfortunate kitchen accident that left me with rather severe burns on one of my hands and I simply could not type. Thanks for sticking with me on this. I really appreciate it.

Thank you, **idreamedmusic**, for the beautiful banner. **Smacky30, Cincoflex, Domo Arigato** and anyone else who might have done a beta read on this or kicked ideas around with me? You ladies are all awesome and I am deeply appreciative of your efforts. **LosingInTranslation** provided invaluable assistance with the medical terminology and is responsible for the wound track diagrams. **atrueparrothead** is responsible for the fantastic video trailer on the index page and has completed another that will be posted with Chapter Six. And finally, a huge thanks to **Cheryl, Lisa, Cindy, Michelle, Muriel, Doris** and **Kaye**. They are my constants.

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

_**"Where do we go from here"  
Cry the voices of the children  
It was once so loud and clear  
It was lightning in the field there  
"And where do we go from here"  
Cry the voices of the children  
And burned into the time  
We are the children  
The children of the new frontier**_

"This is Paula Francis, KLAS-TV Channel 8 Eyewitness News, and you are watching live coverage of the motorcade and funeral of Las Vegas Police Department Criminalist, Dr. Gilbert Grissom."

The funeral procession crept slowly down the Vegas strip. Motorcycle officers led the motorcade with flashing lights but no sound could be heard. The Strip was eerily quiet; residents and tourists alike paused to stare and spare a quick moment of respect for a man who had, in his own way, fought for each and every one of them by ensuring that dangerous criminals were properly imprisoned and not allowed to roam the streets.

Grissom was being honored with an official funeral befitting any law enforcement officer cut down in the line of duty. The fact that he was not a police officer made no difference to the law enforcement personnel who were respectfully attired in full dress uniform. There was no hearse; Grissom's crime scene Denali had been hastily converted to accommodate his casket. Sara, Catherine and the rest of Grissom's "family" rode in Denalis as well. Somehow, the official crime scene vehicles seemed more fitting and personal than a hearse and limousines would have.

The motorcade inched its way along the Strip before turning into a lush cemetery. The vibrancy of the lawn was almost blinding in its false sense of cheerfulness and tranquility. There was no serenity to be found among the many mourners, just a profound feeling of loss and incredible sorrow that rolled across the gentle hills and silent headstones. An elegant granite carillon tower off in the distance shimmered in the searing sun. A cordon of uniformed police officers surrounding the structure marred the majesty of the setting but law enforcement officials were taking no chances on this mournful occasion. The Sniper was not going to add another victim to his list.

"The pallbearers are now lowering the casket from the vehicle. We can see Captain James Brass of the Las Vegas Police Department, LVPD Criminalists Warrick Brown and Greg Sanders, Assistant Clark County Coroner David Phillips, LVPD Crime Lab Audio Visual Technician Archie Johnson, LVPD Crime Lab Trace Technician David Hodges. Again, it is so very fitting that all of the pallbearers are work associates connected to the Las Vegas Police Department since Dr. Grissom's life was dedicated to his work, science and the pursuit of justice. Doctor Albert Robbins, Chief Medical Examiner of Clark County and honorary pallbearer, is walking at the head of the casket next to the field of stars on the American Flag."

Francis' voice droned on as she identified other friends and dignitaries in attendance, such as Clark County Sheriff Ben Burdick, Assistant LVPD Crime Lab Director Conrad Ecklie, Undersheriff Jeff McKeen, who had witnessed Grissom's shooting and former Clark County Sheriffs Rory Atwater and Brian Mobley. Detectives Sofia Curtis, Tony Vartann, Samuel Vega and Officer David Metcalf, all resplendent in their dress uniforms, stood stiffly at attention as the pallbearers made their way to the grave. The crime lab was represented by Bobby Dawson (Ballistics), Ronnie Litra (Questioned Documents) Henry Andrews (Toxicology), Wendy Simms (DNA Analysis), Mandy Webster (Fingerprint Analysis) and former analysts Mia Dickerson (DNA) and Jacqui Franco (Latent Prints). Dr. Phillip Gerard and Dr. Teri Miller were in attendance as were many former students from the seminars he had taught and even families of victims to whom he was able to provide justice and ultimately a sense of closure. Grissom was never really aware of just how many lives he actually touched with his quiet dedication and gentle demeanor. He would never know how much he would be missed, how many people actually cared for him, and that was more of a tragedy than his death.

"Family and friends are emerging from the second Denali. The slim figure with the dark sunglasses shielding her eyes is Sara Sidle, the young woman Dr. Grissom called for immediately after he was gunned down while processing a crime scene at the Stratosphere. Sources close to the couple say that Ms. Sidle and Dr. Grissom were married three days ago in the Intensive Care Unit just hours before Dr. Grissom died from the devastating wounds inflicted by the mysterious Sniper. Despite Dr. Grissom showing some slight improvement and even emerging from a deep coma, in the end, his injuries proved to be mortal. Physicians who treated Las Vegas' foremost criminalist revealed that too many of Dr. Grissom's internal systems had been compromised and that there had never been any hope among the attending physicians that he could possibly recover."

Sara's hands were trembling, her diamond engagement ring and plain gold wedding band glittering in the harsh midday sun as she walked from the Denali to the open gravesite. Her knees were shaking and her legs felt like rubber. If it had not been for Lisa and Michelle walking with her, each gripping an elbow to help her maintain her precarious balance, Sara was certain that she would have fallen. Her two friends watched her closely, stunned by her frailty, her pale skin bleached a stark white against the somber black of her simple dress accentuating a fragility they had never before noticed. Sara had always appeared so strong, so self-reliant, yet Lisa and Michelle both knew that Sara had been injected with a mild sedative to help her withstand this heartbreaking ordeal. They had tried to talk her out of coming to the cemetery but Sara refused to listen. She was all the family Grissom had and she simply could not stand the thought of him being alone when they lowered the casket into the ground.

Sara glanced around, her eyes lighting momentarily on the friends and colleagues who had come to pay their respects. Only Nick was missing. Catherine had haltingly explained earlier in the morning that Nick had expressed his profound apologies that he could not attend for he could not stand to see Grissom buried. Intellectually, Nick understood that it was only Grissom's body being lowered into the earth; that the essence of the man was not residing within the burnished coffin. However, emotionally, Nicky simply could not witness dirt being piled upon the man who had once saved him from his own burial. Grissom deserved so much more than a dark, lonely hole in the ground.

_**In the Texas sun  
It was 1963  
That he held the hallowed gun  
And the Texas wind  
Now there's bullets in the curb stone  
Where the dream had been  
There the dream would end  
It is clear**_

Doc started speaking in a stuttering, raspy whisper. Sara did not know if he was going to get through the eulogy, but he had practically begged to speak and she really had not considered anyone else. Doc knew Grissom better than anyone except for maybe Brass and she did not think Brass could handle the task given his current frame of mind. Brass held himself responsible for Grissom's death; was practically paralyzed by guilt.

Sara was practical enough to understand that sometime in the future, thirty or so years down the line, she would have had to bear the burden of making all of Grissom's funeral arrangements. It was funny really, that a man such as Grissom, who left very little to chance, had never prepared for this eventuality. He did not like to engage in any type of discussion that featured his own death or his final wishes as it made him all too aware of the age difference between them and left him feeling old. He had no family and, until the past couple of years, thought he would die alone. He did not think anyone would ever make a fuss over his passing and assumed that his remains would merely be cremated and disposed of at the county's expense. There would be no one to care, let alone mourn, so the final disposition of his earthly remains had never been something he had ever put a whole lot of thought into. He would have thought it fitting if he had simply rotted away in a solitary cabin somewhere, cut off from society and feeding the insects that had played such an important role in his professional life. Yes, Grissom would find solace in completing such a cycle – from death there is life, just as there has always been and as there always will be.

"And there is no one I would rather hunt rats with."

With that strange pronouncement, Doc ended his eulogy on a choked sob. David gently led him back to a rickety folding chair to seat him next to his wife Judy and stood over him like a sentinel until the older man had managed to regain his composure.

_**You hear the train  
And it's rolling past the farmyard now  
With corporate names  
And you hear the train  
And it's echoing the voices  
That were not the same  
Have we lost the game?  
That is the fear**_

The Sniper set up on the crest of a gentle hill, hiding beneath a camouflage tarp. He was in the open but satisfied no one was looking for him. He would have preferred to have hidden himself in the carillon tower but, ever since the funeral route and cemetery had been broadcast, the police had surrounded the tower with a cordon of officers as a preventative measure. Even if they had somehow managed to finally connect the dots and ferret out his true identity, they would naturally assume that a man such as he, a man bound by honor to respect the ritual and tradition of mourning a fallen comrade, would never taint the ceremonial funeral of a fellow law officer. Well, normally, he would not commit such a heinous act but his hatred of Grissom and Brass fueled his desire. He could not wait another minute to finish his list. Yeah, that schmo William Davis was left, but the Sniper really had no personal beef with him...his death would be an example, a simple matter of general principle.

Davis was guilty of first class cowardice and leaving a man behind. For that simple act alone, he had to die, even if the man he left behind was Grissom. You never, ever leave a man behind just to save your own ass. Besides, had Davis not fled out the back door screaming his fool head off, Grissom would never have been put in a position to talk the scabby perp down and none of this whole mess would have happened in the first place. The yellow bastard would have to die and his death would not be clean. If possible, he would make Davis suffer much more than Grissom.

Funny, before this whole mess unfurled, he had been on really good terms with Grissom. The loner intrigued him and he felt a sort of a kinship with the quiet man who kept to himself and simply went about his job day in and day out. Grissom cared about nothing but the science, solving the crimes and getting the dirty perps off the street. They had so very much in common until that day. Then, Grissom became the enemy, a much-reviled enemy that had to die.

_**"Where do we go from here"  
Cry the voices of the children  
It was once so loud and clear  
It was lightning in the field there  
"And where do we go from here"  
Cry the voices of the children  
And burned into the time  
We are the children  
The children of the new frontier  
**_

Brass fidgeted in the sweltering heat, pulling his starched collar away from his neck in an attempt to alleviate some of the physical discomfort. He was not thrilled about gift-wrapping himself in his drab brown dress uniform like some sort of early freaking Christmas present for the Sniper, but nothing short of his own death would have kept him from this service. He wanted, no, _needed_ to pay his respects to both Grissom and Sara. If his stubbornness made him a sitting duck, so be it. It was his decision and he could live, or, most likely, die, with it. His affairs were in order and if he went down, he went down – no regrets.

He stared at the flag-draped coffin and allowed his mind to wander back to that day so many years ago that set the current tragedy into motion. There were so many ifs, so many things that had gone wrong. If a bona-fide hostage negotiator had been available, he would not have had to fulfill that role. If he had not failed so miserably in his attempts at talking the hop head down, Grissom would not have been involved. Granted, Grissom had done a great job, but, still. If Jim Brass had done his job properly, Grissom would have never been a target. Yes, he was responsible for everything that had happened. Oh, Gaenor pulled the trigger, but he put Grissom in the crosshairs. There was no way for him to make amends, no possible way to return to Sara what was so brutally stolen from her. There was just no way in hell to return someone's life after allowing it to be blown away.

A trickle of sweat slid from beneath the brim of his hat and rolled lazily down his temple to blend with the wet sheen accentuating a pallor indicative of far too many sleepless, guilt-ridden nights. Regardless of what happened, whether the Sniper nailed him or not, a part of him was already dead. He furtively scanned the cemetery as a wave of fear knotted his gut. He could only hope that he was the next target and not Sara. He would not put it past Gaenor to go after the widow in an attempt to erase every trace of Grissom's existence, but prayed that the Sniper retained enough awareness to realize that the only crime Sara had committed, the only role she played in this terrible, awful drama, was loving Grissom.

_**And you hear the song  
That they called 'Sierra Tango'  
When it played Haiphong  
And you hear the song  
And the nightmares of the boys  
Who went and stayed too long  
And their dreams go on  
And they are here**_

What would have happened, Gaenor wondered, if had he taken the advice of his former commanding officer and walked away from the rifles and the sniping…walked away from everything he loved, everything he had trained for his entire life, and settled for something else? How much different would his life have been if he had gotten a nine-to-five, went home, ate pot roast and played with his boys every night? Would he have been happy? Would he have been satisfied? He damn sure never would have done time in prison but…would the sheer boredom of such a life be an adequate tradeoff?

He did not think so. His career as a Sniper had ultimately cost him everything he once held close to his heart, but if he was honest, he would make the same choices again. He would even take that same damn shot again. He would go to prison again and suffer the depravation that can only be found among caged animals. He would do it all again for the rush, for the pulsating sensation pounding through his veins that came from knowing that in the end, he was right. Every second he spent behind bars was worth it and he would do it again just to feel his cock swell every time another mark fell and he crossed one more name off of his list. A righteous kill was the ultimate orgasm, one that you felt all the way up to your teeth, one that threatened to blow off the top of your head. Nothing got his rocks off like sniping and nothing else ever would.

_**"Where do we go from here"  
Cry the voices of the children  
It was once so loud and clear  
It was lightning in the field there  
"And where do we go from here"  
Cry the voices of the children  
And burned into the time  
We are the children  
The children of the new frontier**_

The Sniper zeroed in on Brass, the crosshairs of his scope starting at the crown of the hat covering Brass' head and moving down along his left ear, caressing every fold as it slowly traversed the target's mournful features. Gaenor held his aim on Brass' cheekbone, imagining in exploding into a million shards as the round penetrated that hated face. He wanted Brass to move his head, just cant it a bit to the left so that he could totally obliterate that ever-present smug smirk. The Brass man would never smile again…no more smart-ass comments, no more holier-than-thou attitude, no more tough guy act.

Far below, at the gravesite, Greg shifted his feet and inadvertently kicked one of the chairs. Brass flinched slightly and turned towards the clatter, unknowingly presenting Gaenor with a clear shot of his face. The Sniper grinned and carefully took aim, blinking to clear his vision as he slowly exerted pressure on the trigger.

Sayonara, Sucker.

_**Sycamores grow in the long planted rows  
Out there to break the April wind  
Still the dust it always blows  
In our eyes and in our clothes  
And it's in our very souls  
Like this song about me and Jim**_

_**The back of my hand started looking like a man's  
Way back when I was only ten  
Still the lonesome in me cries  
Like a little boy sometimes  
You can hear it scream  
When I come out screaming like the wind**_

_**Me and Jim, getting thin  
Fare-thee-well to him  
Fare-thee-well now, Mamma  
I'm gonna take good care of him  
Me and Jim, getting thin  
Oh fare-thee-well to him  
But there ain't nowhere to run  
For the oldest living son**_

**To Be Continued…**

** "Children of the New Frontier" - Words and Music by John Stewart – Available on the Album **_**Punch the Big Guy**_** at iTunes**

** "Oldest Living Son" – Words and Music by John Stewart – Available on the Album **_**The Last Campaign**_** at**


	10. Chapter Nine

Title: Sniper 

**Author:** Cropper

**Pairing:** GSR

**Rating:** Mature for Profanity, Graphic Imagery, and Adult Situations

**Disclaimer:** I do not own them but I wish I did. I mean no harm or infringement and will return everyone to his or her rightful owners when I finish, I promise.

**Summary:** A Sniper has returned from prison seeking vengeance on those responsible for his incarceration.

**A/N:** Despite strong circumstantial evidence to the contrary, this is not a Character Death story.

Thank you, **idreamedmusic**, for the beautiful banner. **Smacky30, Cincoflex, Domo Arigato** and anyone else who might have done a beta read on this or kicked ideas around with me? You ladies are all awesome and I am deeply appreciative of your efforts. **LosingInTranslation** provided invaluable assistance with the medical terminology and is responsible for the wound track diagrams. **atrueparrothead** is responsible for the fantastic video trailer on the index page and has completed another that will be posted with Chapter Six. And finally, a huge thanks to **Cheryl, Lisa, Cindy, Michelle, Muriel, Doris, Susan** and **Kaye**. They are my constants.

**CHAPTER NINE**

_**When your wings no longer catch the wind  
Your wheels are throwing sparks from concrete on the rims  
And when you've run so long and you run so hard  
Feeling every stone beneath your feet  
As they repeat that when you run, you run alone**_

The suite in the Alexandria Tower of the Sahara Hotel and Casino was practically overflowing with the dignitaries, friends and colleagues who had attended Grissom's funeral. Sheriff Burdick thought it necessary to provide a place for all to gather for hors d' oeuvres and drinks following the service and chose a hotel situated at the end of the Strip to help keep curious onlookers and nosy reporters to a minimum. Sara understood the necessity for the "reception" but was in no mood to participate. She was more interested in the fact that the Beatles had stayed in that very same suite back in 1964 than she was in greeting any guests. There was nothing anyone could possibly say that would soothe her soul and she could not stomach listening to an endless throng of well-intentioned friends, colleagues and, especially, politicians spout inane platitudes. Everyone, it seemed, had a favorite Gil Grissom story and apparently each and every one of them had some strange, compelling need to share their anecdotes with her right then and there. Sara just wanted to be left alone with her own thoughts and feelings. None of the people gathered in that room knew the Grissom she knew and none of them ever would. She felt as if they were discussing some stranger, not her Gris, her Baby, her very precious man-child.

All heads turned and the incessant hum of conversation ground to a stunned halt when Nick and Brass entered the suite together. The two men were formally attired in matching LVPD dress uniforms and, while not quite identical, the resemblance was so striking that one could easily be mistaken for the other. Nick was well padded and had been subjected to the talents of a professional makeup artist and the addition of foam latex prosthetics to round out and age his face. Even though their hats were tucked securely under their arms, it was obvious that when donned they would make it nearly impossible to tell the two men apart.

Sheriff Burdick broke the silence with a methodical clapping of his hands; the applause grew as the rest of the crowd slowly joined in. The Sniper was finally dead and Nick and Brass were largely responsible for putting an end to Gaenor's nation-wide reign of terror. Brass, who had been hidden at the top of the carillon tower, had nailed the Sniper with one clean shot to the head. It was a righteous kill; a fact that would surely be supported by the hastily assembled review board. At this point, the hearing was merely a formality to be endured. For now, back pounding and congratulations replaced the somber tenor of the suite.

Brass bore the glad-handing with practiced stoicism while Nick silently shrugged past the numerous well wishers and slunk to the bar in search of liquid fortification. He saw no reason to celebrate or be jubilant. A great man had been laid to rest earlier that afternoon and he could still not completely wrap his head around the fact that Grissom was really gone. They had all gone through this hell three years ago when they thought they had lost Gris in that automobile accident. The pain he had felt then was nothing compared to the anguish he was suffering now. At least then there had been hope that they would find Grissom alive and be able to save him. No such hope existed now. Grissom, or what was left of him, was in a hole in the ground covered with dirt. He was gone and they could do nothing thatwould ever bring him back. Nick tipped his shot glass in a silent, private toast to his fallen mentor and friend, swallowed the stinging alcohol with a grimace and motioned for another. Tequila was not the answer but it would temper the aching emptiness he was feeling long enough to survive this ridiculous reception.

The whole plan to trap the Sniper, while brilliant, had threatened to evolve into nothing more than a huge blow job, a pissing contest between the Sheriff, FBI SAC and LVPD SWAT commander before it was even put into action. Brass had been convinced that he was going to see all of those over-inflated alpha males circling that damn carillon with their sorry limp dicks hanging out, each trying to be the first to piss on the granite bell tower to mark their territory. After much swearing and shouting, Brass was finally able to convince them that the deception had to be executed just as Grissom had outlined or it would never work. Gaenor had to be convinced that he was targeting Brass and he and Nick were the only ones who could pull off the switch.

Only a few select people were in on the ruse, the plan Grissom had sketched out before falling victim to Gaenor's revenge. Sara, of course, had been privy to all of the details, as had the Mayor, Sheriff Burdick, the FBI SAC, LVPD SAWT team leader, Brass, Catherine and Doc Robbins. The rest of the CSI team, Nick included, had only been told the bare bones of the plan, just enough to enable Nick and Brass to pull off their identity switch and nail the Sniper once and for all. UnderSheriff McKeen and Ecklie knew nothing. They both loved their face time with the media too much to be trusted with such sensitive information.

Hours before the location of the cemetery where Grissom was to be buried was released to the public, the LVPD had established a protective cordon around the massive carillon. The Sheriff, head of the FBI Sniper Task Force and Brass all knew that if Gaenor decided to show up at the funeral, the bell tower would be his preferred shooting lair. None of the officers protecting the gravesite knew until the last possible moment whether or not they would be pulling guard duty. Twenty LVPD patrol officers in full dress uniform reported to the cemetery every four hours. Four officers plus two alternates were chosen and the rest were sent back to the station to change and return to their normal assignments. On the day of the funeral, Brass had arrived with the replacements and simply slipped behind the ornate copper door to make his way to the top of the tower to watch and wait. If and when an opportunity presented itself, he had a green light to fire, no questions asked.

_**Then it's time for you to begin  
To be wings, to be wheels  
And to know how it feels  
To be you on your own  
'Cause when you run  
Oh, when you run  
You run alone**_

Sara sat quietly in a hideously tacky bright orange and purple striped easy chair tucked into a dimly lit corner of the suite, still flanked on either side by Lisa and Michelle. They had been her stalwart companions throughout this harrowing ordeal, her watchdogs and protectors, keeping the media at bay and shielding her from unnecessary questions and thoughtless conversation. Thankfully, there were no reporters allowed in the suite. Sheriff Burdick had issued stern orders to keep them out of the room and had even posted uniformed officers at all of the elevators and stairways to ensure that this would be a private gathering. Only legitimately registered guests and persons bearing one of the elegantly engraved invitations to the suite were allowed into the hotel proper.

She was curiously detached; torn between twin needs to either laugh hysterically or collapse in a wetly satisfying puddle of soul-cleansing sobs. She watched the others mingle about her without really seeing them, listened to snippets of conversation swirling past her ears in a distorted cacophony of jumbled voices but made no effort to join. Too many thoughts of her own were crowding her mind and fighting for attention. She had neither the will nor the inclination to make even a token attempt at small talk.

Her eyes darted around the room; finally settling on the solitary figure slumped miserably on one of the suite's two sofas. "Poor Nicky," Sara thought as she watched him peel off the foam latex prosthetics; fascinated with the transformation as he slowly emerged from beneath Brass' skin. Gone were the heavier jowls and added weight as he stripped his jacket and shirt to remove the Kevlar vest and padding about his torso. Nick's metamorphosis was stunning, similar to a butterfly emerging at long last from its cocoon, shedding pounds and years as he slipped sullenly back into himself.

Sara fully understood how hard it had been for Nick to carry Grissom's casket and stand so near the open grave site, knowing the coffin was going to be lowered into the dark, gaping hole and covered with dirt. Nick could not stand to see anything covered; his own abduction and subsequent burial had left him somewhat claustrophobic and extremely uncomfortable when confronted with anything subterranean. His daunting mission had been even more grueling since he had volunteered to be a sitting duck, a very tasty temptation for that bastard Gaenor. True, he had quickly volunteered to play decoy out of his deep love and respect for Grissom and was so proud that Grissom had singled him out for this task. Sara suspected that Grissom had actually specifically named Nicky in order to take Nick's mind off of the burial. If he was concentrating on not flinching and looking around for the elusive Sniper, then he could not dwell on the larger purpose of the service.

She smiled sadly in Nick's direction, sympathizing with the man sprawled limply on the sofa wearing only LVPD dress trousers and a sweaty t-shirt. He had abandoned the shot glass in favor of swigging lustily from tequila bottle he snatched from the bar. Nick was anesthetizing himself against a very difficult evening and the even harder days to come.

Brass seemed to be faring no better than Nick. Hehad stubbornly insisted on being the shooter, the one to nail Gaenor. He had convincingly argued that his prior experience in the Marine Corps made him the most logical choice despite the fact that he had not fired a bolt-action rifle in roughly thirty years. Three days of intensive training with a military sharpshooter had quickly revived both his skills and instincts.

He also had several selfish reasons for wanting to be the one to lay the Sniper down. Guilt weighed heavily on him and even now, more than a decade later, he still held himself responsible for the whole sordid mess. Some cases, while resolved, never leave the mind. There is always a "what if" when something goes wrong and an infinite number of sleepless hours are spent reworking every minute detail to ensure that whatever happened never occurs again. Taking out Gaenor would never erase the past, but it would give Brass some closure, knowing that he had finally closed the book on Marlon Landis Gaenor once and for all. Maybe, just maybe, somewhere down the line, he would also be able to forgive himself.

Greg and Warrick were perched on barstools, staring down into half-empty tumblers of amber liquor looking and utterly lost. The Lab Rats were huddled together in a corner talking quietly among themselves and David was hovering protectively over Doc and his wife Judy. Sara was still amazed by Doc Robbins' performance at the funeral. She did not know how he managed to get through that moving eulogy but somehow he did. It was sad; tragic really, that Grissom never really understood how much he was loved. Oh, Gris knew that he was well respected within his peer group but was ignorant of just how many lives he had actually touched and changed for the better, how many young students he had inspired, and how he challenged his team to strive for that very same perfection he relentlessly demanded of himself.

Catherine's attitude towards her had softened somewhat but Sara doubted that their relationship could ever be fully repaired. Catherine and Gris had been friends for a very long time and, right or wrong, Catherine was trying to protect him. In the long run, it really did not matter much. Sara was never returning to the lab and, in all likelihood, would be leaving Las Vegas forever. Yes, she understood where the older woman's animosity came from. She realized that this whole blasted mess was her fault. She knew that if she had not forgotten about their anniversary dinner then Grissom would never have been at work and would never have been shot. It really didn't matter that Gaenor was hell-bent on revenge and probably would have gotten Grissom sooner or later – maybe as he left their house for a quick trip to the grocery store or even as he departed the lab on his way to a scene. None of that mattered. Sara had screwed up, much like she had screwed up during the whole semester by taking Grissom and his love for granted. She knew that he would always be there for her and figured that they would have all of the time in the world, all of the time they would ever want or need once she obtained her degree. She just failed to realize how quickly things could change, how quickly all of her hopes and dreams could be hopelessly shattered when that precious time was ruthlessly stolen away.

Grissom had forgiven her and had even finally said those two little words that she had longed to hear for so very long. The timing had sucked, but he had been sincere and would never have said them just to make her feel better. Saying "Love You" and marrying her had not been the desperate act of a dying man. He would never lie to her like that. It was comforting, knowing that he did truly love her and had desperately wanted to marry her, but that knowledge did not keep her warm at night. She could not wrap it around herself and snuggle deep within its folds like she could with the powerful sensation of Grissom's arms. She would never feel serenity in its quiet breathing, whispered sighs or gently beating heart.

The cost of her PhD had spiraled out of control and Sara was not certain whether she would ever return to her studies. In light of the recent events involving Justin, her academic success was definitely assured should she decide to continue. As badly as she had wanted to obtain her doctorate for herself, she also wanted to do it for Grissom, for them. She just wanted them to be free of the lab and its crazy hours; she wanted to be able to lead a normal life with Grissom. And all of that was gone. Her entire life had vanished.

_**And you know you love the game  
Like the river loves the rain  
A sidewinder loves the plain  
So you can't complain  
No one hears and no one cares  
That the road you're going  
Doesn't get you anywhere  
You're the one who put it there  
**_

Lisa and Michelle were still giggling about the fate that had befallen the pompous Justin Marks. He had finally received his just desserts and the girls were truly bummed that they were unable to witness the events firsthand but had to settle for reliving them after the fact. What had happened to Justin was really very humorous. Sara remembered it all very clearly, thinking back to Justin's last appearance in Grissom's hospital room…

_All heads turned as the door opened and Justin sauntered into the room as if he owned the place. He took one look at the somber faces of the CSI team before directing his gaze towards Sara. He had heard her tell someone named Nick to go fetch the Chaplain and saw the tears running down her flushed cheeks._

"_What happened?" he demanded, his voice shattering the silence that had fallen over the room. "Did the old geezer finally croak?"_

_After a brief, stunned silence a gravelly voice said,__ "Justin? Fuck off, you asshat."_

Sara could not suppress a smug grin at that memory. She loved the fact that Grissom had been able to summon the strength to put the smarmy bastard in his place once and for all. Justin's eyes had nearly bugged out of his head when Grissom growled at him. Everyone in the room burst into unrestrained laughter as Justin flushed a lovely shade of crimson and stood gawping like a goldfish. Sara was sure that Jackass Justin had never before been so resoundingly smacked down by a "corpse".

Brass moved in to tightly clasp a pair of chrome bracelets on Justin's scrawny wrists and announced that he was placing the arrogant professor in "protective custody". His explanation had been that Justin had heard too much, that he knew something was afoot and would impede their plans to ensnare the Sniper. Brass really just wanted to toss Justin in a cell for a while and that seemed as good a reason as any at the time.

Justin made a huge, _huge_ mistake during a simple interrogation. He told Catherine that he had to get out of jail, that he was claustrophobic and could not tolerate being confined. He promised not to reveal anything. He also made it very clear to Catherine that he had to be available for Sara. Sara would need a good friend now that her Sugar Daddy had bought the farm. She would need a strong man to look out for her, a man who knew what was best for her, and he was that man.

Catherine honestly did not know whether she should laugh in his face or vomit on his shoes. Then Justin made his biggest mistake of all…he blatantly propositioned Catherine… offered her "amazing" sex in return for his freedom. Justin obviously thought very highly of his sexual talents and told Catherine in excruciating detail exactly what he would do to and for her. Sofia entered the interrogation room at that point and had slapped Justin with what Brass referred to as a "Solicitation with Intent to Fuck" charge. Despite the fact that the charges would probably never stick, Justin's career went down the toilet the moment he was formally arrested and fingerprinted. He was summarily relieved of his teaching duties at the University and warned that if he even so much as thought about spreading rumors or making any derogatory remarks about Sara, Brass would feed him his own balls with a titanium spork.

_**So why not go and chase the sun  
That's one race that just can't be won  
But at least you have begun  
To be wings, to be wheels  
And to know how it feels  
To be you on your own  
'Cause when you run  
Oh, when you run  
You run alone**_

Sara stood slowly and gave Lisa and Michelle a sorrowful, reassuring nod before haltingly making her way to the small single bedroom attached to the suite. The room had its own private exit into the hallway so she could slip out unnoticed if she chose. The mourners gathered around the bar watched her fragile passing but no one attempted to impede her progress. She paused a moment before turning the heavy crystal knob and inched the door open until she could slip inside. She shut the door and leaned heavily upon its reassuring strength as she kicked her black pumps off and watched them land haphazardly in the general direction of the closet.

She closed her eyes and drew a steadying breath, relieved that the whole ordeal was finally finished. This gathering might go on for several more hours, but her part was done. She had maintained her composure and had performed admirably throughout the whole impossible situation. All she wanted to do was crawl beneath the scratchy hotel sheets and drift away.

She reached behind her to unzip her black sheath dress when a hushed gravelly grumble from the darkened depths of the room startled her.

"You were not meant for Widow's Weeds, Sara."

_**You're a runner and a gunner  
And a midnight sunner  
When you run**_  
**_Then you run alone_**

****

** "The Runner" - Words and Music by John Stewart – Available on the Album **_**Fire in the Wind**_** at Homecoming Records  
**


	11. Epilogue

Title: Sniper 

**Author:** Cropper

**Pairing:** GSR

**Rating:** Mature for Profanity, Graphic Imagery, and Adult Situations

**Disclaimer:** I do not own them but I wish I did. I mean no harm or infringement and will return everyone to his or her rightful owners when I finish, I promise.

**Summary:** A Sniper has returned from prison seeking vengeance on those responsible for his incarceration.

**A/N:** Thank you, **idreamedmusic**, for the beautiful banner. **Smacky30, Cincoflex, Domo Arigato** and anyone else who might have done a beta read on this or kicked ideas around with me? You ladies are all awesome and I am deeply appreciative of your efforts. **LosingInTranslation** provided invaluable assistance with the medical terminology and is responsible for the wound track diagrams. **atrueparrothead** is responsible for the fantastic video trailer on the index page, Chapter Six and now for this Epilogue. And finally, a huge thanks to **Cheryl, Lisa, Cindy, Michelle, Muriel, Doris, Susan** and **Kaye**. They are my constants.

**atrueparrothead** made a fantastic video for this final installment which can only be viewed on my website. If interested, please contact me for the url information or refer to my profile page for the link. Thanks.

**EPILOGUE **

Sara's diploma, awarding her a doctorate in the field of environmental physics, arrived in the afternoon mail along with a utility bill, cable bill, a forensics journal and a tawdry assortment of junk mail addressed to "Occupant". She gave the heavy, over-sized envelope addressed in officious black flowing script a quick smile of satisfaction before dropping the entire stack on the kitchen counter.

She grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and slipped through the sliding glass door leading to a patio and postage stamp sized back yard. Sara took a couple of healthy swallows of water while contemplating the patio's other occupant. Grissom was stretched out comfortably in a chaise lounge, his feet bare, the top button of his faded jeans popped open, and his shirt unbuttoned, laying loosely at his sides as he absorbed the warmth of the late afternoon sun against his tanned flesh. Fading surgical scars marred the once smooth skin but Sara considered that to be a fair tradeoff for having him dozing peacefully in the backyard.

She absently ran the pad of her left thumb over her engagement ring and plain gold wedding band as her mind wandered back to those bleak, traumatic days following Grissom's near-fatal shooting and staged funeral. The whole frightening ordeal had been one of the most harrowing events in her life, ranking right up there with that evening so long ago when her mother stabbed her father to death. She hated thinking about those grim days but now that their lives and relationship had come full circle and she could breathe peacefully again, she finally allowed the memories to surface.

"_You were not meant for Widow's Weeds, Sara."_

_A trembling smile broke across Sara's face as her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room and she regarded the battered figure propped carefully on pillows in the center of the queen-size bed. Grissom was wearing soft flannel pajamas, had a serious case of bed-head, the beginnings of a healthy beard, and looked like a scruffy, tattered cherub. He had never looked more handsome, had never appeared more beautiful._

_She stripped down to her slip and panties and crawled into bed with him. There were a few minutes of adjusting as she maneuvered around the IV tubes and various monitor lines still attached but __she was finally__ able to __slide__ a slender arm beneath his neck so she could carefully cradle his head upon her chest. She needed to hold him, to feel him, to know he was real and not going anywhere._

_So many times during the funeral she had forgotten, forgotten that he was safely hidden away in a hotel suite instead of lying in that gleaming casket. The taste of death rolled over her tongue and mixed with the smell of the freshly dug earth…the lines had blurred at times and there were moments of overpowering desperation when she truly believed that all that was left of Grissom, her precious man-child, was really being placed in that deep, dank hole all alone._

_He was still incredibly weak and needed constant medical attention. His body was beginning to heal but he was not out entirely of the woods yet. There was always the danger of infection but, for the first time, his doctors were actually encouraged by his progress. They seemed to have stopped waiting for him to die and were beginning to cautiously sketch out a treatment plan leading towards a full recovery. Grissom had surprised them with his will to live._

_Grissom was the sole reason the Sheriff had reserved this particular suite at this particular hotel, a location that had never been released to the media. They could not leave him in the hospital nor could they temporarily transfer him to a private care facility—those locations, like the home he shared with Sara, were far too easy for the Sniper to stake out. Everyone associated with law enforcement knew that when Grissom's death was formally announced to the media the Sniper would do some investigating to make certain he was really dead and they had gone to great lengths to make sure that a copy of Grissom's forged death certificate could be easily obtained. _

_Doc Robbins had actually transported Grissom to the morgue in a body bag in case Gaenor had been watching. Gris had been heavily sedated with a small canister of oxygen tucked inside the thick black bag with him for the short ride from Desert Palms to the morgue. The lab, LVPD and morgue had been tightly locked down during this transfer and Grissom's physicians had gone ahead so that they would be waiting when he arrived at the morgue to reattach his monitors and IVs. All in all, the plan had gone off without a hitch. As soon as Grissom was once again stable, he was covertly loaded into one of the CSI Denalis and moved to the Sahara._

"_We have a lot of explaining to do, you know," Sara said when they were comfortably settled on the bed together. "The guys are going to be so pissed when they find out that you're alive."_

_Grissom raised an eyebrow in silent question, encouraging her to continue while he weakly fumbled for one of her hands._

"_You know what I am mean. They'll be happy you're still among the living but incredibly hurt that they weren't in on the plan. They'll think you don't trust them to keep your secrets safe."_

"_Not true." Grissom's voice was little more than a whisper._

"_I know it's not true and I know you really thought you'd be gone when you came up with the idea…that the funeral would be real." Sara shuddered slightly at the thought and Grissom squeezed her hand a little tighter. "Their reactions and emotions at the service had to be real, I understand that, but there are still going to be some hurt feelings. Hell Gris, I knew exactly what was going on and still thought the whole thing was real at times."_

"_It'll be okay, Sara," he soothed, burrowing more tightly into her chest. "You'll see."_

_She fingered his wedding band before linking their hands more tightly and allowing her eyes to close. For the first time in several days, she could relax. Grissom said everything would be okay and she believed him, believed in him. She had never given up hope and her faith had been rewarded. She could finally sleep._

And he was right. It _was_ okay; everything was just fine, more than fine. The guys did forgive both of them, Grissom was medically retired from his career as an active criminalist and Sara resumed her studies. They were at long last able to pursue a life together without the demands, pressures and dangers presented by jobs in law enforcement. They were living their dream.

Sara sauntered over to the lounge chair and nudged at Grissom to scoot over a bit so that she could join him. His eyes never opened as his left arm wrapped around her and she rested her head against his sturdy shoulder. She ran her hand over his warm chest, absently tracing the scars.

"You're taking this retired stuff pretty seriously, aren't you?" she murmured, watching his face closely. One eye peeked open to regard her with a combination of curiosity and amusement before slipping closed again.

"I mean, look at you," she continued playfully, satisfied that she had his attention. "You're out here sunning yourself like you have nothing better to do and I know for a fact that there are three requests for consults blinking in there on the answering machine."

"I'm busy," came the sluggish reply.

"Doing what?" she laughed. "Being a lizard?"

"Exactly."

Sara chuckled again and stretched up to place a soft kiss on his lips before settling back down. Things were better than okay. They were damn near perfect.

_**Ah, once  
We were dreamers on the rise  
We were the sun  
Where the sun never shines  
And we were gold  
Where the night bird only flies  
Oh, that's a long time you know  
For that kind of wind to blow  
A long time ago  
We were dreamers on the rise**_

_**And twice  
We said we'd begin again  
And we made a vow  
That we'd remain as friends  
And fallen down  
We said we shall rise again  
Ah, that's a long time you know  
For that kind of wind to blow  
A long time ago  
We were dreamers on the mend  
A long time ago  
We were dreamers on the mend**_

_**And if three  
Wishes came into my life  
I'd say one  
Was to gaze into your eyes  
And I'd say two  
Would be turning back our lives  
And three's a long way to go  
For that kind of wind to blow  
A long time ago  
We were dreamers on the rise  
A long time ago  
We were dreamers on the rise**_

_**Ah, once  
We were dreamers on the rise  
We were the sun  
Where the sun never shines  
And we were gold  
Where the night bird only flies  
Oh, that's a long time you know  
For that kind of wind to blow  
A long time ago  
We were dreamers on the rise  
A long time ago  
We were dreamers on the rise  
A long time ago  
We were dreamers on the rise**_

**"Dreamers on the Rise" - Words and Music by John Stewart – Available on the Album **_**The Last Campaign**_** at Amazon (dot) com  
**


End file.
